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/ 


PRICE BO CENTS 


The New Timothy 

By William M. Baker 


HARPER’S 

QUARTERLY 

Number 5 


MAY, 1894 




/ 


THE NEW TIMOTHY 


a novel 



WILLIAM M. BAKER 

^ • • 

AUTHOR OF “ INSIDE ” “ THE VIRGINIANS IN TEXAS 
“ CARTER QUARTERMAN ” ETC., ETC. 



NEW YORK 

HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS 

1894 

\ 



By WILLI A.M M. BAKER. 


Insidk: a Chronicle of Secession. Ill’d. Paper, 75 cents. 
Thk Virginians in Tkxas. Paper, 75 cents. 

Cartkr Qdarterman. Illustrated. Paper, 60 cents. 

Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. 

For sale by all booksellers^ or will be sent by mail, postage prepaid, 
to any part of the United States, Canada, or Mexico, on receipt of the price. 




c 



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Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1870, by 
Harper & Brothers, 

In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern 

District of New York. 


r 


TO 

JOHN 

THE MOST IMPERFECTLY DESCRIBED OF ALL THE PERSONS IN 
THESE PAGES, INASMUCH AS ALL MENTION OF 
HER HEREIN FALLS SO FAR BELOW 


HER ACTUAL EXCELLENCE 



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A WORD IN ADVANCE. 


NCE upon a time, years ago, the author turned from 



fields in many respects more inviting, to labor in one 
of the newest, as it is the noblest, of the States of the 
South-west. Residing in the leading city of that State, 
his duties bore him around that centre through a large 
and diversified circle of persons and things, in a climate 
where all is freshest and freest. In the intervals of more 
important labors he found himself recording, almost un- 
consciously, the events and the people of the hour. It 
was as if the paper upon his desk was sensitized, taking 
photographs of nature around, the writer being little more 
than the camera, condensing and directing the same into 


focus. 


The author yields to no man in orthodox belief, honest 
and hearty; and his only hesitation here has been lest 
some hasty reader should for a moment imagine religion, 
or any aspect thereof, lightly mentioned in these pages. 
Yet, even the humblest Luther must risk this when his 
blows are aimed solely at, and fall wholly upon, that 
which is purely human in systems and persons connected, 
and really and truly connected, with our holy religion. 
In the human, and the human only, lies the imperfect, 
and, therefore, not perfectly efficient part of the means 
appointed for the saving of this world. Surely, too great 
allegiance to the human herein is treason to the Divine ! 


6 


A WoED IN Advance. 


And the changes for the better, since this volume was 
written, themselves prove that the effort herein was at 
least in the right direction. 

The author would beg leave to state distinctly that he 
himself is not the Mr. Charles Wall of this book : where 
every thing else herein is almost literal fact, it would 
make the volume a fiction indeed to suppose any thing 
of the kind. 

He ventures also to add that he has given himself, since 
inditing these pages, exclusively to the Profession which 
he regards as demanding and rewarding every energy he 
possesses. Yet he ventures to hope that an effort in the 
same general direction as incidental as this may not be 
wholly in vain. The Master deigned to accept and use 
the fishes and barley -loaves of the Apostles, as well as 
their sufferings and labors in the ministry. 


W. M. B. 


CONTENTS 


Chapter L 

In which Mr. Charles Wall, hut not our Hero, steps upon the 
Stage... Page 11 

Chapter IL 

Mr. Wall, Jun., preaches his first Sermon 17 

Chapter III. 

A new Character for the tragic Muse, truer to Fact than any Cornelia, 
Goneril, Desdemona, or Lady Macheth of them all 23 

Chapter IV. 

We make the Acquaintance — under his solemn Protest, however — of 
Mr. Merkes 32 

Chapter Y. 

Mr. Charles Wall ventures into a Mohammedan Paradise 47 

Chapter VI. 

In which Charles Wall and John Easton ascend Parnassus 51 

Chapter VII. 

A Sunday at General Likens' s 68 

Chapter VIII. 


In which we return to Patriarchal Times 


80 


Contents. 


viii 


Chapter IX. 

John and her Friend Page 92 

Chapter X. 

In which Mrs. General Likens expresses herself 96 

Chapter XL 

Mr. Robert Long arrives upon Bohasheela 108 

Chapter XII. 

Another Arrival^ and the Return Home 125 

Chapter XIII. 

A Family Council convened. 136 

Chapter XIV. 

(Juite another Neighborhood than General Likens's 147 

Chapter XV. 

Good Mr. Ramsey has his Views 158 

Chapter XVI. 

Mr. Charles Wall has a Providence not apparently quite so providential 175 

Chapter XVII. 

We make acquaintance with the Meggars 182 

Chapter XVIII. 

The Hunt of the Bear., and of other Game besides. 199 

Chapter XIX. 

The Diocletian of these Days 218 

Chapter XX. 

Something about John and Edward. 237 


Contents. 


IX 


Chapter XXL 

Mr. Edward Burleson drinks deep of Helicon Page 244 

Chapter XXII. 

The Enthronement of a King ! 258 

Chapter XXIII. 

In which Mr. Merkes is cruelly treated 270 

Chapter XXIV. 

“ Terrible Neivs in Town to-day. Sir I' 277 


Chapter XXV. 

In which Mrs. General Likens enacts the savage Medea to her Off- 


spring 285 

Chapter XXVI. 

Mr. Boh Long finds Something tougher than Greek or Hebrew 291 


Chapter XXVII. 

Mr. Charles Wall makes his terrible and hairbreadth Escape 300 

Chapter XXVIII. 

Facilis est Descensus — But why is the old Quotation so very hack- 
neyed 307 

Chapter XXIX. 

The supremest of WomarCs Rights 317 

% 

Chapter XXX. 

“ Thine Ears shall hear a Word behind thee, saying. This is the 
Way^'' 323 


X 


Contents. 


Chapter XXXI. 

An Announcement and a Reminiscence Page 330 

Chapter XXXII. 

In which one of us enters into a Heaven of Rest^ and two others of us 
into a Heaven of Work 340 


The New Timothy. 


Chapter I. 

In which Mr. Charles Wall, hut not our Hero, steps upon the Stage. 

A LLOW US the pleasure! This is Mr. Charles Wall, 
this young gentleman, of twenty or so, who sits in 
the depot here this cold morning waiting for the train. 

He must be thoroughly chilled, for, unbuttoning his 
overcoat, he takes the little demon of a stove completely 
to his bosom, so to speak, warming himself with all its 
heat. Well thawed at last, he glances around the room 
to find that there is nothing, not even an obsolete map on 
the walls, worth looking at. So he goes travelling back 
again, with his feet on the iron hearth, over the twenty 
very cold miles of hack riding just accomplished. He is 
back again in the front pew of the village church. The 
body by whom he is there and then to be authorized to 
preach are very much pressed for time, and so the process 
is somewhat unlike what, for years now, he had pictured 
to himself it would be. Three pews there are of candi- 
dates direct from a course in College and Seminary; quite 
a mass, and examined in the mass. 

“Charles Wall!” and that person takes in turn his 
stand upon the lower step of the pulpit, painfully too nar- 
row for the purpose. First, a Latin composition. A 
world of pains, an eternity of time, he has taken wdth it ; 


12 


The IsTew TimothYo 


but he reads it rapidly, sonorously, to show, in an incident- 
al way, how familiar he is with that language. Ten sen- 
tences only, Cicero warming to his work, when the chair- 
man of the body nods to him Enough ! The candidate 
differs from him decidedly, but yields. Next, the first 
paragraph of a critical exercise upon an appointed passage 
of Scripture. Then a few rapid sentences from still a 
third species of exercise. After this, the first page of his 
first sermon. That sermon ! The choicest paper, the 
blackest possible ink, the intensest preparation ! All of 
this the body will be eager to hear. Alas, no ! There is, 
however, a peculiar emphasis in the “ That will do. Sir !” 
of the chairman. At the instant it indicated to the candi- 
date a profound satisfaction in the sermon ; afterwards he 
is not so sure. 

His Rubicon passed, interest in the examination of the 
rest is singularly lessened ; he yawns and sympathizes 
with the examining body. All of the candidates, at last, 
are requested to retire ; are requested to return. A holier 
feeling fills the house. Certain solemn questions are asked, 
and answered from the very heart. Then, in the hushed 
silence, the oldest minister present offers a prayer which 
bows the head of eaoh to the very bosom. A short, im- 
pressive charge is given, and the candidates leave the 
church authorized, by a denomination than which none 
stands higher on earth, to preach. 

For one, Charles Wall stands outside the building with 
a breathless feeling, landed there, as by an instant leap 
from boyhood, a man ! At this point in his reflections our 
traveller takes his elaborate exercises from his carpet-bag, 
and dropping them into the stove, hears them roaring up 
the pipe with keen enjoyment. 

‘‘Something better than all that, my boy!” he says, and 
aloud. Thorwaldsen the sculptor, you know, wept at the 


A Student of Divinity. 


13 


cold feet of his finished Christ, wept to find himself unable 
to improve line or limb thereof ; wept, knowing from this 
that he could never surpass it. 

'No train yet. He puts more wood into the stove, as into 
a locomotive, and goes journeying back, with his feet 
against it, still farther into the past ; re-entering the Sem- 
inary left a day or two before, setting out to retread its 
course, he faces the class with which he came out. A dys- 
peptic regiment they are ! Pale cheeks, slouching should- 
ers, ungainly bearing, clothing not under-brushed nor over- 
new. Those ignorant Greeks of two thousand years ago 
trained their youth for the active duties of life by a course 
which developed and strengthened body and mind. His 
Seminary course is admirably adapted to reverse that 
heathenish plan. As these youth are intended only for 
ministers of the gospel, you know, a business so much less 
exhausting to brain and muscle, so infinitely less important 
than that of, say, Alcibiades or Pericles, it makes no differ- 
ence ! 

Therefore not a man of his class has swum a stroke, rid- 
den a horse, taken a ten-foot leap, alas, when ? Caring for 
the soul, rather over-caring than otherwise for the mind, as 
far as possible the very existence of the body is ignored. 
Sawed wood? Yes. — Dumb bells? Oh yes; and gone 
through in set doses at set times. — Walks? Yes, again: 
and with your fellow-student, arguing every step of the 
way upon the last theme of the class-room — only a peri- 
patetic variety of constant study. Morning, noon, night, 
midnight, daybreak: at it again, study, study, only study ! 

The business of these is with human nature, and from ex- 
actly that are they quarantined for years. Rough, roaring 
human nature ; cheating, swearing, gambling, drinking, 
sinning with all its force the world over. Or smooth and 
silent human nature ; sinning in deeper and deadlier fash- 


14 


The New Timothy. 


ion everywhere ! In all cases, unbelieving with steady 
and intense energy the wide world over, in each and ev- 
ery thing, it will be his life’s business to convince them of ; 
in them and himself, too, grain and fibre warped and set 
dead against him and his sacred work. And he is man- 
acled just at the formative period of life, in books, lectures, 
exercises, examinations, as in fetters felt even in sleep ! 
From his cell in his four-story bastile very faintly indeed 
did the student hear even the distant murmur of the great 
world which he is in express training there to influence and 
utterly change ! There is that refectory ! Long tables 
lined with students, never the face of a woman or the voice 
of a child; thrice a day only students at the necessary duty 
of eating brown Boston crackers, one each meal, three a 
day, twenty-one a week, ninety a month, say eight hun- 
dred and ten a session — our traveller eats them all over 
again backward in memory ! 

His professors there, too ; learned, devoted, surpassed by 
none, living or dead. It is not their fault if the all-compel- 
ling institution, steadily, insensibly contracting its walls 
upon them, had made them Melanchthons rather than Lu- 
thers. As the social life is nothing, you know, to a pastor ; 
as you can influence a man most by instructing him only 
from the desk, and not with his hand in yours, of course it 
was all right. It was wrong in our hero to doubt whether 
such a social chasm should have yawned between teacher 
and pupil, remembering none such between the great 
Teacher and His disciples; very wrong, and therefore we 
will not mention it ! 

No train! And so he recalls the hours spent, as in a 
dissecting-room, upon truths hitherto held unexaniined and 
as matters of course; hours almost painful, yet leaving him 
satisfied of evangelical doctrine as of a system whose Mak- 
er is indeed God. Those impecunious students, too ! He 


Teaching the Teachers. 


15 


sees again that poor fellow starving his leanness leaner 
upon crackers and cheese in his room. That other, shiver- 
ing at his Hebrew the winter through, his entire ward- 
robe on for warmth, his bed-covering on over that ; no 
wood if he had a stove, and no stove if he had wood ; with 
more of Satan in him than he dreamed of, in concealing 
wants which would have been joyfully supplied. 

The nights in the Seminary chapel return again. There 
stands poor Lewis, say, at the desk, delivering to his make- 
believe church his make-believe sermon of ten minutes ; 
the quill of the presiding professor beside him, writing 
down each defect in matter or manner as it occurs, with a 
scratching terribly distinct to the speaker, whom the fic- 
tion supposed to be preaching the gospel. The criticising 
of the sermon, when over, by the congregation, led by the 
professor from his ample memoranda — a criticising so in- 
congruous with the matter of the sermon, so hilarious to all 
save the one undergoing the same ! There were the jokes, 
too, of that one of the venerated professors who would ^dke^ 
discharged with prim precision from his desk ; the laughter 
thereat ricocheting all along the line of eaters at dinner 
thereafter. 

Those sermons on the Sabbath, too, by the professors in 
turn, closely read from MS., but with solemn injunction un- 
derstood that no student there was ever to read his ser- 
mon, when he came to preach, on any account whatever. 
There was that rage for punning, also, which, beginning 
with one student, infected all the rest — a real mental dis- 
ease, a grotesque reaction from severe study, a moral 
measles ! The afternoon prayers in chapel, too, the voice 
of so many men swelling the deep bass ; the special sup- 
plication thereafter for grace against intellectual self-con- 
ceit ! And there was — 

The train ! Carpet-bag in hand our hero hurries along 


16 


The New Timothy. 


the cars, peering in at the windows. The expected friend 
grasps him from the steps and draws him aboard. Burle- 
son his name — Edward Burleson — and he is able to do it, 
so strong he is, so fresh and handsome. Seated beside him, 
his luggage deposited beneath his seat, our student (he had 
forgotten himself for an instant) becomes suddenly very 
grave and deliberate. Since he has parted from his friend 
has he not become a clergyman ? He doesn’t realize it 
himself yet, but he must impress it on his friend. He must 
be very careful indeed, now, what he says or does. Burle- 
son wonders a moment, understands it all. Pshaw !” he 
says, to himself ; “ what do I care? Home ! Going home ! 
And I wonder whether poor Anna — yes, and how fat has 
Bug got by this time — ” 

The train rushes southward with them. The fireman 
can not cram too much pine into the furnace, the engineer 
can not turn on too much steam ! Let the wheels turn, 
they bear these two, and side by side, towards the begin- 
ning of their lives ! 


Home ! 


17 


Chapter II. 

Mr, Wall^ Jun., prmches his first Sermon. 

S O many miles by rail, so many more by steamboat 
down the river ; so many more by stage. For it is to 
an inland town in a Southern State — what does it matter 
to you which? — they journey. How the magnet of home 
draws as they approach it ! Here is Hoppleton at last ! 
Rather smaller, it seems, than when they left it for the North 
and education years ago. And this is the Post-office, with 
loungers thereabout peering curiously in at the passengers. 
This is Mr. Burleson’s handsome house — handsomest in 
Hoppleton — at which Edward leaps out to greet his state- 
ly mother and Anna, his sister — a little querulous, now, 
Wall thinks in his rapid glimpse of her face, and Bug, the 
pet ; other than brown crackers she has had, so fat she is. 
But here is home ! Very near, indeed, to kissing the negro 
cook, young Wall comes, in the rush and whirl of kissing 
all the rest swarming from the house to meet him. The 
same dear aunt, with her knitting in hand as of old, and the 
velvet touch of her lip as when he left home, oh, ages ago. 
Laura, too, gardening gloves and sun-bonnet on ; yes, and 
exactly the same pruning-scissors in hand, of course ! But 
his uncle ! the hair is thinner and whiter ; no change in 
the best of all uncles except that : welcoming his nephew, 
and pressing a little money upon the driver, and tugging 
at the buckles of the stage-boot, and wondering “ how 
Charles has grown,” all in a breath. 

And so they have him into the house — by no means as 


18 


The New Timothy. 


fine a house as Mr. Burleson’s. All talking together, 
questioning, laughing — tears, too, if they would confess it ! 
Then supper, at last — nobody really eating, being other- 
wise so abundantly supplied. The long, long talk till near 
midnight, after family worship, which is itself a joyful 
thanksgiving. One hour Charles stands talking in the 
doorway, candle in hand, even after he starts for his room. 
The same room as when he was a boy, when the pyramids 
were a-building so very long ago ! They have prayers 
without him in the morning — so tired, you know — and the 
singing awakens him. And, in a day or two, it is as if he 
had been back home at least a year ! 

“ You remind me of Mr. Merkes, Charles,” says Mr. 
Wall’s uncle to him at breakfast the Sabbath morning af- 
ter this, and at home again. ‘‘ He comes over here to Hop- 
pleton to assist me at a communion. Sunday morning he is 
sure to be unwell. ‘ Have a cup of hot water, with sugar 
and peppermint. Brother Merkes,’ I say to him. ‘ No, 
Brother Wall,’ he always replies, shaking his head. ‘ It 
will do me no good. My bowels are always disordered 
when I have to preach, always !’ I do hope, Charles,” the 
uncle adds, “ that you will not be one of those invalid folks. 
I do like a man to be strong, hearty, happy in the service 
of his Master. Have another slice of this beef? help your- 
self to the toast !” and he continues his own meal with the 
zest of health and cheerfulness. 

“ Mr. Merkes, Merkes,” replies the nephew. “ I can just 
remember him. Tall, is he not, sir ; thin, rather sour, I 
mean sorrowful ? The one, yes, that had that trouble with 
his church at Canfield ?” 

“ Yes. He has charge over here, just now, of the Likens 
church. Never mind Mr. Merkes,” continues the uncle, 
who is the exact opposite of that gentleman ; eat your 
breakfast. This is some of your cousin’s best cooked rice. 


John’s Ideas. 


19 


Why will people cook it into a mush ? See how separate 
the grains are !” 

Once more up stairs and over that sermon ; once again, 
for Mr. Wall the younger is to preach to-day his first ser- 
mon. “ Yes, and once again, if I have time,” he is saying, 
when he is called down stairs. Time to go to church. His 
uncle and aunt have already gone. His cousin Laura gone 
even before them. John will walk with him. It is very 
well ; any other one must be talked to as he goes, and he 
wants to think. 

So she walks beside him, for that is her sex, even if John 
is her name ; sober as he, a vast deal more erect, in her 
brown dress, her face worth a look, at least from any other 
than a youth on his way to preach his first sermon. But 
it was something odd that of all the world she should have 
been the one to have accompanied him on that walk — it 
seemed so, looking back upon it afterwards. For her sex 
it was a wonder she kept silence so long. It was not un- 
til they were in sight of his uncle’s church that she spoke — 

“ Charles, please — ” 

“ Well, John, what is it ?” 

“Would you like — I beg your pardon — my idea about 
preaching ?” Very modestly said, though. 

“Your idea — ” He had wrought himself into quite a 
frame of mind. He was going not only to preach his first 
sermon, but a very remarkable sermon ! Her idea ! Lit- 
tle did she know of what a sublime thing it was to preach, 
at least as he was going to preach ! Did ever a girl speak 
so to Summerfield, say, on his way to church ! 

“ It is only if I was going to preach I would try to feel 
as if I was going into a room to talk to some friends there 
about religion. Very solemn, but — but — as if it was only 
talking to them. That is the way your uncle does.” 

He can excuse her. True, she had heard preaching, but 


20 


The New Timothy. 


never any great orator or preacher ! Little she imagined 
the grandeur, the sublimity — 

But they are at the church. And no crowd around it 
unable to get admittance ! We herewith patent the pro- 
found discovery that of all men the sensitive man meets 
most things to bother him. Mr. Wall treads, as he goes 
down the aisle, leaving John to her fate, upon the rich and 
sweeping dress of a lady just before him. She turns, and, 
of all ladies living, it is Miss Louisiana Mills ! Him his 
sermon ballasts from utter upset. Exactly the same per- 
son he had left her those years ago ; only so very much 
larger ! 

But he is with his uncle in the pulpit. There is the con- 
gregation before him like a pool rippling in the sun, pain- 
fully aware of it under his drooped eyelids. Now, if he 
could only have looked fair and square at them, a man 
about to speak to men and women merely ! Little is he 
conscious of the services going before. At last his uncle 
waves his hand to him to proceed, and he rises and takes 
his text. 

But Mr. Wall will please wait one moment while we 
turn suddenly around upon you, dear reader. Suppose 
yourself put to hard study at college from sixteen to twen- 
ty, all motives of earth and heaven bearing upon you till 
you grudge an instant’s attention to that beast your body 
beyond what is essential to keeping it upon its legs and 
going beneath the severe riding of mind and soul. And 
suppose a continuation of this process from say twenty to 
twenty-three or four, at a theological seminary ; studies 
doubled in intensity both from their deepening nature and 
your intensified motives ; associations still almost exclu- 
sively with students, and students only. Is there no light 
herein upon the fact that clergymen are invalids to a de- 
gree left to your own observation to decide? Scholars? 


Mr. Wall’s Sermon. 


21 


yes, iiiid able theologians. But how about them as men 
Avhose work is to get nearest of all men to other men foi 
God ? If you happen to be in some frontier town when a 
preacher arrives there fresh from such a course, please see 
for yourself, and if you find such a man in close and cor- 
dial influence with the masses, write me, and these words 
will be eaten with pleasure ! 

At home, this Mr. Wall, with, his congregation! For 
six years he had hardly ever even seen other than students 
and professors ! He is earnest enough, makes plenty of 
gestures, but it is all mechanical. He is not speaking to 
men and women — he is “ delivering a discourse.” Starting 
above the people, he keeps above them all through ; with 
side-trains of thought while keeping the discourse in the 
condition of being delivered : “ I wonder how I am preach- 
ing !” “ How do they like that idea ?” “ What does my 

uncle here behind me think of my sermon ?” Built like a 
barrel-organ, every wheel and tooth in exact place, this 
sermon of his ; so that he keeps the crank going, he can say 
to himself : ‘‘ Three pages gone, five, ten ! Suppose I 
should turn two leaves at once, what icoidd I do ? Sup- 
pose Louisiana Mills was to faint, must I keep going on ?” 

The people are very attentive, looking at him as at a 
performer doing something, with no more reference to 
what he is saying than he has himself! Very earnest, 
gestures multiplying like the revolutions of a fly-wheel as 
the steam gets up, all purely mechanical ! Distressingly 
conscious of this too. His sermon is the sleigh in which 
he is driving, the congregation being the snow beneath. 
He can not get out of his sermon and at the people to save 
his life! He can no more draw rein than could John Gil- 
pin. And now the end of his sermon begins to terrify 
him; it is nearer every page, and there must be a smash 
up then ! He grasps and sways his congregation ! It and 


22 


The New Timothy. 


his sermon have complete mastery of him instead — poor 
fellow. It is a sort of bitter relief to find himself seated, 
dripping with perspiration, in a corner of the pulpit, his 
uncle closing the services ! 

How he dreaded and shrank from the congregation ! 
It is a force, a sort of monster. And it is only good Mr. 
Ramsey, old Mrs. Robbins, sorrowful Mr. Ewing, rollick- 
ing young Hyson, the dry-goods clerk ; cheery Mr. Mack, 
the cabinet-maker ; poor Mrs. Marston, in mourning for 
her little Kate ; M‘Clarke, to whom all sermons were alike, 
so that they did not take up too much of the time from 
the singing, which he led ; Mr. Burleson, the banker ; Mrs. 
Burleson, stately and still ; Anna Burleson, somewhat 
overdressed, and having reference to the unmarried youth 
present ; Edward Burleson, whose face the preacher had 
avoided as a man bearing powder would a torch ; Bug, the 
very fat pet of the Burlesons, wide awake during the first 
third of the service, fast asleep and held from rolling off 
the seat only by the steady hold of her mother in the 
puckers of her dress during the rest. Oh yes ! and Josiah 
Evers, who affected skepticism as one does the wearing of 
a neck-tie of a fashion later than known to common folks. 
Issells, too, the miserable tailor, had dropped into an ex- 
treme corner, sadly soured, poor Issells, against all the uni- 
verse in general and religion in particular; Moody, too, 
the hotel-keeper, and all the rest. 

His uncle is as genial as usual ; that is all. His aged 
aunt only says, “ My dear boy, and I have heard you 
preach !” as he assists her up the steps on the return home. 
As to John, not caring to look at her too closely, the new 
minister is conscious of a retention about her li23S, a kind 
of guardedness about her eyes. Some positive relief, how- 
ever, he finds in slipping his sermon, immediately on enter- 
ing his room, into the fire ! 


John’s Thoughts. 


23 


Chapter III. 

A new Character for the Tragic Muse, truer to Fact than any Cornelia, 
Goneril, Desdemona, or Lady Macheth of them all, 

4; ^TUFF and nonsense!” says Mr. Burleson senior, at 
^ his dinner-table the same day. ‘‘ ‘ In the teeth of 
clenched antagonisms,’ wasn’t that it? ‘Pinnacled upon 
the dim eminences of holy communings with heaven!’ 
‘Drinking nepenthy,’ or something of the sort. ‘Gar- 
landed with glory.’ And his uncle such a sensible man! 
What is ‘ Osphodel?’ ” 

“ Asphodel, father,” replies his son Edward, fresher from 
college. “ But only let me — ” 

“ Suppose I was to make an address of that sort to our 
bank directors; or to the people about our Air Line Road; 
even about temperance! Sing them a sort of song from 
paper ! Religion is unreal enough already, without mak- 
ing it more so by preaching of that sort !” 

“ Oh, I like him tho muth,” says Bug at this juncture. 
“ He preathed tho like thinging by-baby, I thlept all the 
time!” 

And all that Edward can plead for his friend is, that he 
will outgrow and overcome in time his seminary training. 
“ I only wish I had his purpose and — you know I’m no 
Christian,” he adds; “but I thought God helped people 
that are — taught them !” and much more to the same ef- 
fect. 

“I’ll warrant Edward’s success at the bar,” says his 
mother, as her handsome son concluded an earnest defense 
of his friend. 


24 


The New Timothy. 


As to Mr. Burleson senior, what is the use of merely 
saying that he is as practical and methodical in his relig- 
ion as he is in his bank business and every thing else? 
Better illustrate it thus : When he united with the church 
good Mr. Ramsey was church collector. Never a more 
popular pastor than Mr. Wall the uncle, yet never a more 
painful duty than that of collecting, in that region, the 
pastor’s salary. As a cross Mr. Ramsey accepted the 
duty, and towards the close of each quarter his supplica- 
tions for aid in bearing his cross were touchingly fervent. 
Nothing did he dislike more heartily than this collecting 
of church-dues, nothing did he do more faithfully. He ap- 
proached each subscriber to the salary with a deprecatory 
air, anticipated objection and excuse, seeing it coming in 
the eyes of the subscriber long before it reached the lips. 
He imagined that faces waxed gloomy at his very ap- 
proach. Yet his pastor must be paid ! If, like other and 
less devoted martyrs, Mr. Ramsey was not drawn and 
hung, he certainly was quartered most cruelly ! The dis- 
cipline was deepening his piety, but shortening his days. 
His hair was thinning and whitening, his brow wrinkling, 
his step faltering, under the heavy cross. The Monday 
after joining tlie church Mr. Burleson senior takes Mr. 
Ramsey’s office in hand. 

‘"A church is as much a corporation as an insurance 
company or a bank ; its pecuniary business must be man- 
aged in exactly the same way.” He not only says but 
does it, and Mr. Ramsey is evidently growing younger ev- 
ery day. 

“ I’ll tell you, Ned, just when I’ll acknowledge that your 
friend has got sterling sense,” this practical father now re- 
marks the same night after supper, as he brushes away the 
crumbs to make place for the large Bible on the table. 

“ When will that be, father ?” 


Louisiana Mills. 


25 


“ The day he is married to Louisiana Mills 

“ Oh, father, how can you say so !” is the exclamation 
of Anna the daughter, some thirty years or so the senior 
of Bug. Somewhat vehement, too. But the mantel-clock 
strikes six sharp insisting blows as she exclaims. Punc- 
tual to a second, the father reads from the open volume 
twenty verses exactly, and afterwards offers a prayer of 
concise acknowledgments of the precise mercies received, 
with -specific statement of others still needed. Mr. Burle- 
son is humble and sincere ; but prayer, too, is a business 
transaction ! 

“ Why, father, how strange ! Louisiana Mills !” Miss 
Anna continues, on the other side of the parenthesis of 
family worship, and much more protest to the same effect. 
Mrs. Burleson leaves the room during it in stately displeas- 
ure. 

‘‘What is it to yotc^ Nan?” her father ^dds, in a tone 
which conveys unpleasant meaning. He has taken up the 
Missionary Magazine, reserved for Sabbath reading, in his 
hand, which turns instinctively to the pages of donations, 
and he glances up the column of figures, as he speaks, to 
see if the treasurer is correct. 

3Ief Nothing to me,” says Miss Anna. But she pro- 
ceeds to tell her father that Louisiana is too rich and too 
lazy, and too beautiful and too fond of dress, and too much 
of a vast deal more than we can record. 

Whereupon her brother explains that Louisiana is of the 
exact style of woman to which a student would react from 
severe study. Besides, she is merely an ideal; Mr. Wall 
knowing as little really about her as he does oi any other 
human being, especially* of her sex. “ Miss Loo Mills,” he 
adds, in conclusion, “ is at once the most perfectly beauti- 
ful and absolutely silly individual I ever knew !” 

“ Louisiana is an excellent girl,” begins his sister Anna, 


26 


The New Timothy. 


not at all displeased at part, at least, of her brother’s re- 
mark. 

“ She’s my Mith Loo,” interrupts Bug just then. “ She’s 
tho thoft and fat like me. It’s tho nithe to thit in her lap. 
And she loothes good things to eat jutht like me. Oh, I 
love her tho muth ! And she isn’t so croth like sisther 
Anna.” 

“ Oh lawsy, no !” exclaims Edward at this instant, in 
such exact imitation of the voice and manner of the lady 
in question that even Mr. Burleson raises his magazine 
higher to conceal his smile. 

‘‘I’m ashamed of myself,” the son adds immediately. 
“ Miss Loo is undoubtedly the loveliest human being I 
ever saw in my life; only one little lack.” 

“ And what is that ?” his sister asks anxiously, for all 
the affection she would have given to husband and chil- 
dren Miss Anna lavishes, for the time, on her only brother. 

“ Mind, information, soul, whatever you choose to call 
it. Beautiful, perfectly so, and that is all !” is the broth- 
er’s valuable opinion. 

“ Oh, Edward ! How was it, then, you and Loo were 
talking together so long when she was here yesterday ?” 
asks his sister, and quite cheerfully. 

“ Conversed ? If ever a man tried to I did ! Simplified 
every thing down to baby-talk, and the only reply I could 
get from her was, ‘ Oh, Mr. Bur-le-son !’ ‘ Well, I de-clare !’ 
and ‘ Oh lawsy !’ with the sweetest laugh I ever heard !” 

“ Oh, Edward !” exclaims his sister, who can by no 
means be truthfully accused of excess either of beauty or 
laughter. 

“I was thinking of Wall the whole time we sat togeth- 
er there on the sofa. Reaction from his polemic, patristic, 
didactic theology, and all the rest, with a vengeance ! 
Like their hysterical punning there at the Seminary. By- 


John Easton. 


27 


the-by, where is her brother David now ?” he adds, sud- 
denly. 

“ Don’t you know, Edward — don’t you remember ?” re- 
plies his sister, touching her forehead with a jewelled fin- 
ger. 

“ Still so ? Always was so ?” 

The sister nods her head, with meaning. 

I once read somewhere,” Edward adds, after a pause, 
“about an exquisitely lovely girl who was — It was a 
ghastly tale ! Perfectly beautiful, and yet — ” 

“ Oh, come now, stop ; that will do !” exclaims their fa- 
ther, suddenly, laying down his magazine. “There’s 
enough of that. I’m ashamed of you ! Besides, you for- 
get it is the Sabbath. Be a little more profitable in your 
conversation and, drawing the candle nearer, he looks 
up the legacies to the cause in the magazine in question. 

There is a silence of some minutes. 

“What a queer little, sw^eet little — child, girl, young 
lady, which is it ? — she has grown to be !” says the broth- 
er, permitting at last his thinking, with his eyes in the 
fire, to take words. 

“ What ? Louisiana ? If you call her little — ” 

“I am not speaking of her. We have exhausted her. 
I am speaking now ” — the brother deliberately adds, in a 
forensic manner, as much affected in the law-school this 
only son had just left as is skepticism by Josiah Evers. 
Who of us but wears some peculiarity exactly as one does 
a breast-pin ! “ John, is it ? John what ? and John how ?” 
he continues. 

“Oh, I don’t know ! Mrs. Wall, or Laura Wall — some- 
body — told me all about it long ago. I’ve forgotten how it 
was. Sudden death,” Miss Anna vaguely explains, “ of 
father and mother. Something about a cruel aunt some- 
where, I’ve forgotten,” 


28 


The New Timothy. 


“No relation at all?” Edward asks. 

“Noneat all! Oh, you know those Walls, brother. 
Just like them. Hardly rich enough to alford it. They 
love her dearly, and no wonder ; we all do, she is such a lit- 
tle — Yes, Easton it is ; why, John, I’m sure I don’t know.” 

“ Such a little — Quaker ? What is it ? So — demure ? 
Pshaw ! one can not express it. Louisiana, now, is a full- 
blown rose, very beautiful, very fragrant, very rich, but in 
ten minutes you know her perfectly and forever. But 
this little moss-rose — ” 

“Time to go to church,” the father interrupts the son 
just here. “You are speaking of John. The only girl I 
would like, out of all Hoppleton, to see a little more of. 
You should invite her here more ; she is getting to be a 
young lady, and as nice a one as I know. I asked Mr. Wall 
once if her father had not been once connected with a bank 
in some way. I had an impression to that effect from some- 
thing in the child herself, and I was not at all surprised 
when he said yes. I’m satisfied her mother wrote a beauti- 
ful hand.” All of which is more of praise than Mr. Burle- 
son senior has ever awarded a girl of Hoppleton before. 

“ I would love her more,” Miss Anna adds, as she rises, 
“ only she has a way of never saying any thing about peo- 
ple — The fact is, the child, poor thing, has had some 
painful history or other, not exactly hardening her, but 
subduing, quieting. She has fifty times more character 
than Laura Wall. Poor Laura, dear, good-natured Lau- 
ra — ” 

“ Take care, Anna, you should respect age 1” her brother 
hastily remarks, and then tingles to the tips of his fingers 
with vexation at himself, for his sister can not be far from 
the same age. 

And he has only himself to blame for it there the same 
night after the family have returned from cliurch. Brother 


Anna Burleson. 


29 


and sister sit together by the fire of the dining-room, the 
brother smoking a cigar by special permission, for they are 
rather proud of him than not, proud of the manhood which 
he is assuming. The sister sits by his side, thinking, silent- 
ly, her hands lying clasped in her lap before her. 

“ Did you ever know a poor fellow more brimful of defect 
than that young Wall of mine ! We talk of things being 
vulcanized, galvanized ; and this unfortunate youth,” the 
brother says, with energy, evidently trying to stave some- 
thing else off, “ has been so thoroughly seminarianized it 
will take whole years — ” 

But here the sister suddenly lays her head upon her 
brother’s shoulder and breaks into a passion of weeping. 
The brother smokes steadily on, disconcerted, but power- 
less. Such long, long letters from his sister for years now, 
while North at that law-school ; letters crossed, recrossed, 
blotted with these same tears ; letters left unread, some- 
times unopened; letters answered jokingly, answered an- 
grily, answered argumentatively, not answered at all. 

‘‘ Why, Anna, I am astonished at you !” he says at last. 

“ Oh, Brother Edward, it is so hard to bear ! Poor, poor 
me !” she sobs, utterly pitiful in her misery. 

And angry at her, pitying her, loving her, despising her ; 
keenly sympathizing with her, too, more than he will ac- 
knowledge even to himself ; yet what can he do ? He could 
give her medicine if she was sick, money if she was poor, 
advice if she was in doubt. He could kick a dog if it bark- 
ed at her, could shoot a man if he insulted her. “ You 
have every thing in the world, Anna,” he attempts at last. 
“ The best home in Hoppleton, garden, piano, bookgs com- 
pany, health, wealth. You have a good father and mother, 
and a brother — such as he is. And there is dear little 
Bug—” 

I can’t bear it !” weeps the sister, paying no attention. 


30 


The New Timothy. 


“ It’s hilling me ! Every body except me ! What have I 
done ? I hate visiting and housekeeping and making new 
dresses 1 Hate them ! New dresses ! What’s the use my 
making dresses when nobody cares a cent for me, or how I 
look ? I’ve tried to love Bug instead ; six months ago I 
began. She’s a perfect pest in the house. I can’t love her ! 
I wo'ii^t love her ! She wears me to death with her eternal 
frolic. She says things to people that come here — heart- 
less little wretch ! And Ma almost hates me, she says — as 
if she didn’t get married. And Pa has no more feeling, can 
no more understand than that clock ! It’s all a weary 
round day after day; and what for? What does God 
treat me so for ? I only want to be like other women ! — 
only to have my own home and chil — I want something 
to love, to live for ! I hate every thing !” 

And she ceases weeping, and lifts her head from her 
brother’s shoulder in excess of feeling. 

“ Quiet, Anna ; quiet, quiet,” is about all her brother can 
say ; but adds the moment after, as a happy thought, 
“ Why, look at Laura Wall ! I never saw a happier wom- 
an in my — ” 

“ Because she has no more spirit than a cat ! We’re 
different ! Easy to say quiet ! It’s only mortification, 
mortification all the time !” the sister adds, with cold mis- 
ery in tones and tearless eye. 

“ But think of all you escape, Anna,” reasons her broth- 
er, hopelessly. “ Sickness in the family, trouble with your 
husband, perhaps — ” 

“ I’d take it all gladly ! Measles, scarlet-fever, whoop- 
ing-cough, teeth — I’d rather have a husband that got 
drunk and beat me — something to love !” 

Well, love me, Anna, I love you — ” 

“ For how long ? Till you get a wife to love and be 
loved by. Then what will you care for me! I hate to 


Laura. 


31 


live here with Pa and Ma. When you get married I won’t 
live with you — I won’t, I worCt do it ! I’ll kill myself 
some day ! I wish I was dead this minute — ” 

By a singular coincidence Mr. Wall senior is that very 
moment saying to his daughter as she kisses him good- 
night, 

“ That poor unhappy girl ! Thank God, Laura, you are 
so different ! And thank God, the world over, no lovelier, 
nobler, more devoted women live than are found in her 
— class is it ? and yours ! 

“ Ours is a somewhat dull town, if you will not whisper 
it,” Mr. Wall continued. “ All our work, certainly all her 
work is done by the negroes ; nothing on earth to occupy 
her but the seeing that her dresses are properly made. 
God made us to do something — and she is doing nothing! 
In that far-away time when squabbles among the denom- 
inations shall cease and — possibly — perhaps ” — voice lower- 
ed to a whisper — “ slavery shall somehow be done away 
with here in the South — who knows but work may be 
found for women too. But God casts our lot not in the 
millennium but in to-day and in this little inland town, all 
post-oak and cotton plantations, in the South — ” 

But just at this point the familiar bell rings for family 
worship. 


32 


The Neav TimothY' 


Chapter IV. 

We make the Acquaintance — under his solemn Protest, however — of Mr, 
Merkes. 

T his Monday afternoon the Rev. Charles Wall sits by 
the fireside in company with John and — worth fifty 
thousand cargoes of Johns — “ The Analysis of the Will.” 
He is reviewing the passages marked by him therein for re- 
perusal, putting in his thumb, in fact, and pulling out the 
plums — somewhat stony — of this Christmas Pie. Coming 
home, on the railroad, upon the steamer, even in the stage, 
had he read at this same excellent but somewhat tough 
treatise. Nothing but an ever-varying landscape, and 
merely men, women, and children about him — no time to 
waste on them ! He has extracted a particularly impor- 
tant one, and leaning back in his rocking-chair — that cra- 
dle for grown-up babies — is obeying my Lord Bacon and 
inwardly digesting the same. But oh, that some angel 
would whisper to him and his whole class that no human 
being but is a volume too, richly worth at least an occa- 
sional study ! If any such angel hovered near, it wisely 
took the guise of John, sitting on the other side of the 
fire-place — an easy transformation for the angel ! 

As he rocked to and fro, his half-closed eyes upon his 
companion, he grows aware of the fact that her head, bent 
over her sewing, resembles that of the ‘‘Greek Slave,” 
which he had seen, with hushed lips, a few weeks before, in 
New York: oval contour, straight nose, curved lip, clear 
brow, hair gathered into a simple knot behind — how won- 


Chaeles and John. 


33 


derfully like ! A reminder of the marble, too, in the hue 
and repose of this work of art also ; none of the glow and 
gorgeousness of Louisiana Mills, with whom he had spent 
the morning — Venus in contrast to this Diana ! How fresh 
and pure and sweet and quiet ! 

Here the Greek Slave raised its eyes to learn, with a 
blush suffusing all its marble, how it was being criticised, 
and to obtain the valuable information : 

“ Why, John, you will be really beautiful !” 

The eyes fall upon the sewing of the busy hands, to rise 
again to his, calm and full : 

“ Much obliged to you. What do you mean ?” 

A pleasant smile, too, but no ringing laughter ; there’s 
where Louisiana had the advantage of her ! 

“ Beg your pardon ! How old are you ?” 

“ Older than I seem — nearly sixteen.” 

“ In school still, I supjDOse ? But no, for to-day is Mon- 
day.” 

“ Xo. I closed the course at our Seminary here just two 
weeks before you returned.” 

“ And what next ?” 

“ I do not know.” 

And it is a shade this time which flits across the pure 
face. Thereupon Mr. Wall junior kindly examines her 
upon the nature of her studies. The Botany therein re- 
minds him, he tells her, of the meeting held by his class at 
college to demand release from lectures on the same. 
“ Botany is for females,” the committee appointed thereat 
had urged upon the Faculty in their request for lectures, 
instead, upon Political Economy. “ Yes, but Political 
Economy is for men !” had been the instant reply from the 
professor who said satirical things. His foot on college 
and seminary heather, he has an hour’s interested conversa- 
tion with her. 


3 


34 


The New Timothy. 


“You know they always said in their letters, ‘John is 
well as usual or, ‘John sends her love or, ‘ We couldn’t 
get along without John and the like. You have grown 
so! Would you like me to teach you Latin?” For it 
dawns upon him that it will be a great kindness to mould 
and form her mind, so fresh it is, and plastic 1 And an- 
other hour is given to discussion of tins project. 

“ Above all things I would like to know — ” 

“Mr. Merkes 1” John interrupts him, rising quietly from 
her seat as a gentleman enters the room. “Mr. Merkes, 
this is Mr. Wall.” 

In the millennium people will say, when they meet, ex- 
actly what they think. “ Mr. Merkes ! Tall, thin, austere — 
my very idea of a professor of the higher mathematics !” is 
wLat Mr. Wall, in that case, would have said. “And you 
are that nephew your foolish uncle has told me so much 
about ! An uncle’s absurd partiality ; just as I suspected !” 
would have been Mr. Merkes’s salutation ; only, in the mil- 
lennium, our very thoughts about each other will be, and 
justly, congratulations. As it is, Mr. Merkes takes no partic- 
ular interest in his young friend. He has so many troubles ! 
And he shows none — merely takes a seat a little apart. 

“ I will let my uncle know that you are here,” says 
Charles Wall, and is too far outside the room to catch 
Mr. Merkes’s slow remark : 

“ No, you need not. He is not at his study. I will wait 
for him.” 

“How have you been, Mr. Merkes?” asks John, when 
the silence is growing too long. Save when his wrongs 
are the topic^ silence incrusts Mr. Merkes like ice ; averse 
to conversation, on the general principle of being averse to 
pretty much every thing. 

“ Not well. Miss. My health is, I may say, never gooc\” 
is his reply. 


Mk. Merkes’s Miseries. 


35 


“No special sickness since you were here last?” asks 
John, with interest in her eyes. 

“ No, Miss, no. I am generally unwell.” 

And unless every line of his face lied he certainly was, 
though no man ever had a more iron constitution. And 
chronic his complaint is. No baby had ever been so ill- 
used from his very birth ; his rattles came to pieces per- 
versely just to annoy him ; his cradle only jolted him ; the 
chairs tripped him ; the floors smote him. The conspiracy 
thickened against him as he grew up ; his ball fled from 
him in spite ; his books hid themselves, whenever he start- 
ed for school, to get him a whipping ; molasses withheld 
its due sweetness, pudding its sufficient quantity, out of 
sheer malice. His brothers bothered him ; his sisters wor- 
ried him ; his parents were far from being, at least to him, 
what parents should have been. Teachers and schoolmates 
but swelled the cabal against him. Emerging into the 
world he found it — as he expected ! — but an arena full of 
personal foes. Yet, with all this, Mr. Merkes has veins of 
gold all through the quartz of his character, driven therein 
as by the fiery force of his religion, which is pure and sin- 
cere. 

“The children are well, I hope ?” John again breaks the 
rapidly congealing silence. 

“ Samuel has been quite ill, I believe ; Mary was threat- 
ened with the croup; Alexander is well just now,” Mr. 
Merkes replies. 

“ And dear little Lucy, Mr. Merkes ?” 

“Ah, yes; consumptive, 1 fear.” A softening in Mr. 
Merkes as he says it ; harder than most men even then. 

“ Take a seat nearer the fire,” urges Charles, who has 
now returned and reported the result of his search for his 
uncle. And Mr. Merkes did seem cold — even in midsum- 
mer his appearance betokened frost : genuine piety at 


36 


The New Timothy. 


heart ; but one can keep heat as well as flame covered up 
in that as under a bushel. 

Mr. Merkes declined the seat. Whatever an ofier was, 
Mr. Merkes generally did decline. His habitual feeling is 
No! 

“I have often heard my uncle speak of you, sir,” re- 
marks Charles at last. 

“ Favorably ?” doubted Mr. Merkes to himself, his outer 
expression being ‘‘ Ah !” 

‘‘ When did you arrive ?” he asks at last. “ A very un- 
pleasant trip you must have had,” he adds on being in- 
formed. 

“ No, sir; a very pleasant one indeed.” 

“ Generally am contradicted,” thinks Mr. Merkes. 

“ You are well acquainted with Dr. Brown,” his young 
associate in the ministry ventures after a while. “You 
will be glad to know that he is well. Fills his chair ad- 
mirably.” 

“ Yes ; his book — ‘Analysis of the Will,’ I believe they 
call it — obtained him the place. I tried to read it once. 
It seemed to make a great parade of learning !” And in the 
same way Mr. Merkes acknowledges that Dr. Johnston may 
be of a lovely character but not of much force. “ His In- 
augural was the poorest thing I cA^er saw. He w^as no 
more fitted for his chair than I am,” adds Mr. Merkes. 

“ On the contrary, he does admira — ” begins Charles. 
“ I beg pardon 1” he blushes and corrects himself, “ I mean 
he is quite successful.” 

Mr. Merkes is used to bufieting; he takes it patiently. 
But he is no whit swept away by the young man’s enthu- 
siasm for old Dr. Ivison, either. 

“ More peevish, however, as he grows older, I fear,” is all 
his comment thereupon. 

“ They tell me the Institution is becoming very rich,” 


Mk. Wall, Senior. 


37 


Mr. Merkes remarks, after quite a silence ; “ at least some- 
thing of the kind was trumpeted in the papers. False, I 
suppose; statements generally are. Rich men suppose 
they can buy heaven that way. They may find themselves 
mistaken.” 

‘ In the same strain Mr. Merkes is sure the new chapel be- 
ing built there will lead to extravagance. But just here the 
front gate is heard falling to. A quick step along the 
gravel, and Mr. Wall senior enters the room. 

“ Ah, Brother Merkes ! Glad to see you !” He greets 
his visitor cordially and as with both hands; a burst of 
sunshine upon an iceberg, the glow in return is only re- 
flected. “ Glad to see you — glad to see you !” continues 
the new-comer, laying aside hat, cane, and overcoat. 
“ This is my nephew. Tall isn’t he ? Draw nearer the fire. 
How have you been ?” For if Mr. Merkes is winter, his 
host is summer — yes, and autumn. 

Mr. Merkes waits while his host punches the fire vigor- 
ously. The animation of that individual enlivens yet ex- 
hausts Mr. Merkes. His perpetual protest against it fa- 
tigues him. The very high standing of his brother in the 
ministry, his wonderful success, which Mr. Merkes can not 
fully account for, make it incumbent that he shall be doub- 
ly on the alert not to yield thereto. It is like walking 
against the blowing of the south wind. Alas ! when with 
no one whom he can oppose, Mr. Merkes whirls round upon 
and opposes himself In all the world no one whom he op- 
poses and maltreats as severely as he does himself! 

“Whether it’s the workin’ of a diseased mind on the 
man’s body, or a diseased body on the man’s mind, I don’t 
know,” Mrs. General Likens has often remarked to the 
General, smoking his cob-pipe in his arm-chair. “ But he’s 
a good man for all that !” the same lady always says, after 
an hour or so of speech upon the same point. “ A most an 


38 


The New Timothy. 


excellent man i’’ she even adds with considerable emphasis, 
by way of apology for any thing said by her to the con- 
trary 

“All well, I suppose, with you?” Mr. Wall senior adds, 
in continuation of his greeting, rubbing his hands cheerful- 
ly together before the fire. 

“ About as usual,” is the reply ; leaving the impression 
that the usual course is far from joyous. “ No, nor any 
tiling of special interest in his church.” 

Mr. Ramsey, who has recently visited the General Likens 
neighborhood in which Mr. Merkes resides, has given us in 
Hoppleton a wonderful account of the singing there, Mr. 
Wall informs Mr. Merkes. 

“ And had nothing to say of my sermon. Of course !” 
is Mr. Merkes’s thought. He says only: “Yes; it is 
loud, and, I believe, correct. Whether they are making 
melody in their hearts to the Lord, though — ” Solemn 
silence. 

“ Mr. M^Clarke, who leads your singing, does not even 
profess religion ?” he asks. 

“ Oh yes ; for years has done so,” Mr. Merkes is inform- 
ed. 

“ I feared not, from his excessive interest in your singing.. 
Reminds me of the theatre.” And Brother Merkes regrets 
the undue levity of the children in Mr. Wall’s Sabbath- 
school ; greatly fears the whole church is in a state of de- 
cline, sorrowfully refusing to accept Mr. Wall’s theory 
thereupon of seed-time as well as harvest. 

“ And how is Mr. Long doing ?” his host asks at last — 
hopefully, too. 

“ The very singular person they call Brown Bob Long ? 
For the present I hnoio nothing against him. I expect ev- 
ery day to hear that he has gone back to his desperate 
courses. I generally avoid him. On two occasions he 


Neighborly Questions. 


39 


squeezed my hand so hard on meeting me as to render a 
poultice necessary. I confess I have but little faith in 
him.” 

“Nor have I ! Not a particle ! But I do have in his 
Master to help him stand,” Mr. Wall makes answer. At 
which Mr. Merkes is very justly and deeply offended. 

“ And Mrs. General Likens ?” asks his host, after a pause. 

“ Her general health is good, sir,” Mr. Merkes replies. 
“ At least so far as I know. Her intellect I regard — I 
think all do — as utterly unsettled in reference to what she 
calls her poetry. It makes her a positive nuisance !” Mr. 
Merkes adds, with gray heat, stung suddenly by remem- 
brance of his cruel sufferings in connection therewith. 

Will some one please write and say how it was? Mr. 
Wall senior flowing evenly along like some munificent 
river, broad, deep, bright, making all his course that much 
the greener and more beautiful. And this other flowing 
with narrow thread among the obscure places of the world, 
perpetually fretting among pebbles, striking hopelessly 
against rocks, tumbling wounded and protesting over con- 
tinual falls all along. Temperament? Circumstance? 
What ? 

“ Oh, we are perfectly agreed at heart. Brother Merkes,” 
Mr. Wall remarks at last, rising from his seat — he never 
can remain seated long. “And now I’ve got a favor to 
ask of you ; I’m glad I thought of it. Please ask my 
nephew here to preach for you.” 

“ Oh, uncle !” exclaims that nephew, while even John col- 
ors a little. Mr. Merkes slowly considers the proposition, 
having advantage of them all therein. 

“ Have you any special reason therefor, uncle ?” asks the 
nephew, somewhat aware of the length of Mr. Merkes’s re- 
flections. 

“ Yes, I hava If Brother Merkes will be so kind !” is 


40 The New Timothy. 

the reply. Mr. Merkes looks up. Some conspiracy against 
him ! 

Next Sabbath I preach against that wretched Ishmael 
Spang, by appointment,” he says finally. “Your nephew 
can come the Sabbath after. Some of the people may 
have some curiosity to hear him.” 

“ Thank you. Now come to my study. Brother Merkes,” 
his host says, walking towards the door. “We’ll leave 
these young people to themselves.” 

“ My company not being agreeable to them !” thinks 
Mr. Merkes, eternally haunted, and by his own ghost at 
that ! 

Miss Louisiana Mills is at supper, when, a few evenings 
after this, it is announced to her that young Mr. Wall has 
called and awaits her in the parlor. Now Miss Loo had 
eaten almost nothing since dinner, and there were rice bat- 
ter-cakes for supper. Presume not to judge in her case if 
you have never had upon your plate such cakes — soft, 
light, the delicate white as delicately browned, well but- 
tered, a dish of honey not six inches from your plate ; and 
similar batter-cakes continually from the kitchen, each 
supply hotter, softer, lighter, better browned and buttered 
than the last. Miss Loo sees no pressing necessity of leav- 
ing the table instantly. Mr. Wall can wait a little. 

Mrs. Mills comes in to him at last, shakes hands, gives 
an incidental pull at each of the very handsome curtains, 
says Loo will be in presently, asks after his “ people,” and 
vanishes. Door opens again — Colonel Mills! No one 
more cordial than the globular Colonel. Not a richer, 
happier, more cordial household in all Hoppleton. And 
you would never dream it of the Colonel, who sinks into 
an arm-chair, filling it full as one does a mug with ale, his 
white waistcoat and ruffles answering very well for the 


At Colonel Mills’s. 


41 


foam ; but the unanimous opinion of that community is 
that the Colonel and his household are, in reference to any 
and to every thing outside their family circle, the “ closest 
people ” — strong emphasis on closest — in the world ! It is 
only that they have so decided a sense of the necessity of 
enjoying themselves as to be unwilling, very naturally, to 
abate in any way their means of doing this by expendi- 
ture upon others. 

“ And, lawsy ! what did you talk to the people so for 
last Sunday?” Miss Loo is saying to her visitor half an 
hour later. 

“I don’t understand you, Miss Loo,” Mr. Wall replies; 
but in his soul he is saying, “ you are undoubtedly the most 
beautiful woman now alive !” groaning over it none the 
less. 

“ Why, don’t you know ? lawsy !” A peal of laugh- 
ter. “ That other Sunday you preached; but this last time 
you talked to us so ; it sounded so funny. Lawsy !” An- 
other ringing laugh followed. 

Let patience have its perfect work, dear reader, while 
we pause to explain. The Saturday beiore this visit Mr. 
Charles Wall happens to spend the evening with his 
friend Edward Burleson. After much conversation be- 
tween them, Miss Loo being herself magna pars quorum — 

“ By-the-by, Wall, to-morrow is Sunday,” said Burleson. 
‘‘ You are to preach in the morning for us. Going to give 
us another essay on religion ?” 

“ I don’t know what you mean,” said the young minis- 
ter, very gravely. 

“ Oh, yes, you do. You’ve got an elaborate composition 
upon some passage of Scripture in your drawer at home, 
all very accurately written out. Over and over again have 
you trimmed and pruned it. You’ve put in just as many 
fine things as you possibly could. You’ve gone over it 


42 


The New Timothy. 


with the pumice-stone till it is as smooth, and cold, and 
hard as marble. Look here, my dear fellow, you say you 
know and believe really and truly in the living facts of 
God and man, and Christ between the two— hell and 
heaven beyond — is that the way to tell these facts to 
men ?” 

“ And you would have me stand up and pour out what- 
ever comes first ?” 

“ Your sermon is the explaining and urging some pas- 
sage of Scripture, isn’t it ?” 

“ Yes, of course.” 

“ Having written a sermon on the passage, you under- 
stand its meaning, do you ?” 

‘^Certainly.” 

“Well, why not just tell people its meaning? In your 
sermon you spread that out in a sort of language — Pulpit- 
Gse — Sermonano — whatever you may call the dialect — 
such as men and women never use to each other when 
talking about wheat and calico, bread and butter, sickness 
and health, marriage, and love, and death. The whole sub- 
ject of religion is vague enough to men anyhow — unreal. 
And you lift it still higher above people’s heads — make it 
still more unreal, unhuman, by the way you present it. 
I’ll tell you. Wall, I’ve heard sermons by great preach- 
ei’s that reminded me exactly of the jargon of some doc- 
tors in a sick-room. They can’t give a bone, a fibre, a vein, 
an organ of the body, a disease, a medicine by its plain 
name, but must wrap it about in rounding syllables. Only, 
it is with souls^ instead of bodies, that ministers have to 
do. What awful quackery! Stunning perishing sinners 
wdth a summer-thunder of long words, lulling men that are 
to be devils or angels forever with the monotonous rippling 
of smooth syllables. Why don’t the man talk to men — 
talk to them, I say, about the terrible realities of the case. 


Sermonizing. 


43 


Surely, it was this Christ did ; and read the way the apos- 
tles addressed the people. This is what I meant when I 
said I would rather preach than do any thing else. It seems 
to me I could shoio the people what swine they were, so 
occNupied with the body and so forgetful of the soul, so in- 
tensely interested in men and so utterly unconscious of 
God. I feel as if I could grasp them so, as with the naked 
hand, shake them, force them, compel them to open their 
stupid eyes, and look up from their acorns a little !” and 
Burleson’s cheek glowed with feeling as he spoke. 

“ And your own heart dead to it all ! But there is a 
great deal in what you say,” said Wall, with deep in- 
terest. 

Thank you. If I only could. I’m afraid — ” 

“ Suppose, when you got into the pulpit you found you 
had lost your sermon, what would you do ?” 

“No danger ; last Sabbath I felt my breast-pocket, to be 
sure it was there, twenty times on the way to church. My 
heart, brain, soul were all wrapped up in that roll of paper. 
I had no existence for the occasion out of it.” 

The next morning was a bright Sabbath, cold, clear. As 
much to gratify Burleson — for whom he had .the warmest 
attachment — as for any thing else, the young minister ar- 
ranged, according to agreement, to get to his friend’s office 
half an hour before service. Sure enough, he found a good 
fire on the hearth — a pitcher of fresh water on the table — 
no one to interrupt him. Yet once again he went over 
his precious manuscript. There was evidently going to be 
a large attendance at church. His uncle, too, preached in 
the country in the morning, so all the service from first to 
last would devolve on him. He felt in a frame of mind 
more calm and natural than the Sabbath before. As the 
clock over the mantel indicated the hour of beginning near 
at hand, he thrust the folded sermon into his breast-pock- 


44 


The New Timothy. 


et. The ringing of the last bell, and a knock at the door 
at the same instant, raised him to his feet. He unlocked 
the door to admit Burleson. 

“I will walk with you to church,” said Burleson. ‘‘It’s 
time — come — ah ! let me brush your coat, the collar.” 
And he did so carefully, amid the thanks of his friend. 
“A glass of water, Wall; it will clear your throat — now 
come, we are a little late.” It was but a few moments, 
and Wall found himself again in the pulpit — this time, 
alone. He felt the better for it — thrown more on himself. 
The church was filled. He arose, ofiered the opening prayer, 
gave out the first hymn. Seated, as they began to sing, he 
took the large Bible ofi* the cushion, opened it on his lap 
exactly in the middle, felt in his breast-pocket for his ser- 
mon — it was gone! One moment of entire paralysis — 
body and mind. But M‘Clarke led the singing loud, and 
clear, and with an enjoying sense of six verses to come. 
His enjoyment of this fact was nothing to that of the 
minister in the pulpit; but for this he would have-— he 
knew not what ! He tried in vain to recall even the 
text — all was a dead blank. Should he beckon to some 
one to go and hunt for his sermon? Should he slip 
down and go and get it himself? The ridicule; the 
anguish ! It was temporary insanity ! Suddenly the 
fact flashed upon him — Burleson had purposely taken 
his sermon in brushing his coat! It was monstrous, 
he would never again speak to him while he lived ! he 
had half an idea of exposing him to the congregation on 
the spot. But it was light upon his darkness. Two verses 
of the six gone ! “ Very well, Mr. Burleson — very well — 
I’ll show you, sir !” It was his pride rallying to his aid — 
but there is help promised, he thought — and he bowed his 
head on the Bible and sought it sincerely — keeping aware 
all the time, however, of how the hymn was being expend- 


Talking to the People. 


45 


ed — a grain of gold every word. By the fifth verse he re- 
membered the chapter from which his text was taken. 
As the last syllable of the hymn died in the air, he 
had the chapter ready — rose and read it. Midway he 
came upon his text — put his finger on it with a painful 
pressure, and kept it there. This was the text from which 
he was to address the people — so he read the rest of his 
chapter as if it were addressed to the people too — gaining 
assurance and ease at every verse. Then a prayer, rising 
clearer and stronger in manlier accents than he had ever 
prayed in public. When he closed, he and the people were 
nearer together by far than before. He felt at ease — even 
a species of cheerful strength. Then he gave out the sec- 
ond hymn — only five verses, when he might have made it 
seven, and took his seat. With half-closed eyes he endeav- 
ored to recall the first sentence of his sermon — impossible — 
he threw it altogether out of his. mind — laid hold on the 
text instead. The moment to begin found him entirely 
ready. Rising, with his eyes on the congregation, he an- 
nounced his text and proceeded to explain its context — 
then its own meaning in the order of its ideas. As he pro- 
ceeded his anxiety vanished — he became interested in the 
people before him and in making them understand exactly 
what the passage meant. He became earnest with the 
swelling thought of the passage — held the people with his 
eye, with the waving of his hand. Once or twice he rose 
even into eloquence — as he would have done conversing on 
the same theme with Burleson in his office. In fact, he was 
conversing with his audience — nothing more. Xot a per- 
son there that did not follow him in what he had to say 
to the end. Then the prayer, hymn, benediction — and it 
was all over. He had been with the people all through the 
sermon — there was no barrier between them after its close 
— none of that morbid, fearful shrinking, as on the first Sab- 


46 


The New Timothy. 


bath, from a phantom, an unreal something. No, there was 
Mr. Ramsey waiting to shake hands, and Mn Burleson, sen- 
ior, and several others. He came down from the pulpit, 
not as from a mystic summit above his audience altogeth- 
er. No separation had yawned between them and him 
there as before. He had spoken, in an entirely natural, com- 
mon-sense manner, important and common-sense truths. 

And it so happened that the text involved the explana- 
tion and enforcement of one of the most absolute doctrines 
of religion — in the opinion of Mr. Josiah Evers, the school- 
master. At the opening of the discourse, Mr. Evers had 
arched his brows and uttered an internal heigho ! of pity 
a little overwearied, politeness taxed a little too much, you 
know. Somehow’’, however, he had been carried aw^ay with 
the speaker — on and on in the successive statements based 
on Scripture, confirmed by reason — it was like one of his 
scholars reciting the multiplication table to him, and he 
powerless to deny each successive statement. say, Jo- 
siah, look here ” — was his thought as he w^alked rapidly * 
home after church, — “ suppose that some of these old no- 
tions should be so, after all — suppose — suppose — heh ?” At 
dinner, however, he was none the less pityingly polite, 
kindly contemptuous in his manner when the sermon came 
upon the table with the rest of the meal. “ Ye-es — ye-es — 
quite well for so young a preacher — do very w^ell — very 
well !” 

But, to return to Mr. Wall and Miss Mills. 


Miss Loo and her Father. 


Chapter Y. 

Mr, Charles Wall ventures into a Mohammedan Paradise. 

ND, by-the-by, you are a member of the church, Miss 



Loo ?” he asked, after a while, and in his lightest 
manner. 

“ Oh dear no ! Me? Oh lawsy, no !” But without the 
laugh ; in as frightened a manner as if she had been invited 
to embark in a balloon. 

“ I am so sorry you didn’t like my sermon,” he adds, 
hastily, to undo his mistake, and in a still lighter manner. 
For she is so very beautiful ! 

“ Oh, I never said so. Lawsy, no !” 

What rich, ringing laughter ! And so beautiful ! N’or 
does half an hour more of conversation avail to obtain for 
her visitor even a pin’s head, in all her exclamation and 
laughter, upon which he can hang even the frailest sub- 
stance or meaning. She is only a very large little girl. 
But so beautiful ! 

“ Wliat a singular name, Louisiana — Louisiana ! How 
did they happen to call you that ?” he asks at last. 

“ Oh, I was born on Pa’s sugar-plantation there, you 
know. And oh, the syrup we used to eat there warm from 
the kettles !” So amusing. 

“ They could not have given you a better,” her lover 
says, thinking of the sugar-cane and oranges, and the 
heavy moss swinging in the slow breeze there over the 
universal level; with dim remembrance, too, of the mo- 
notony there, and malaria. Because he is her lover. He 


48 


The New Timothy. 


was that when he left Hoppleton a boy, years ago ; and 
none other than she his Dulcinea during all his career, with 
never a Sancho Panza beside him, while away. 

And Miss Louisiana is smoothing a ribbon between her 
sleepy fingers, and — is so beautiful ! She is just risen from 
a most satisfactory supper ; is richly dressed, jewelled, and 
perfumed ; is in perfect health, very rich, not a care in the 
world. If she does not actually purr with satisfaction as 
she sits upon the velvet cushions of the sofa, it is not be- 
cause she is not in the mood to do so. 

Plenty of ofiTers has Miss Loo had. But she is a per- 
fectly obedient daughter, and those pecuniarily desirable 
have been a little too undesirable in respect of drink, 
horses, cards, and the like, for Colonel Mills. His one con- 
demnation being, “No, Loo; he will spend every cent of 
your money !” She has only, in such case, to say to the 
ardent swain, “ Oh lawsy, no ! The idea !” an(Pthe silver 
peals therewith have rung requiems to many a confident 
attempt on her heart, hand, and fortune. Although it is 
only her father who sf)eaks through her li^^s on such occa- 
sions, just as it is only Professor Pentzmenkey, her music 
master, who plays through her fingers when she is at the 
piano ! 

And Miss Loo is such unspeakable and delightful reac- 
tion from the Seminary course. Only, if he does indeed 
succeed in winning her, Mr. Wall feels that it will be like 
coming suddenly into possession of a wax doll of the larg- 
est pattern — and what to do with it ! 

“ Do let me hear you play,” he says at last, in despera- 
tion for a topic. And Miss Loo seats herself at the superb 
piano, places before her the first page of music which 
comes to hand, and grants his request. 

No pains nor money had been spared to instruct Miss 
Loo; but it was severe work. Pentzmenkey earnestly 


Beautiful Miss Loo. 


49 


desired to make money ; it is the only thing that holds 
him to it. In her case he fairly earns his money. Stand- 
ing behind her as she sat at her lessons, his voice is persua- 
sion, but his face is wrath. During her serene persistence 
in every possible blunder, a thousand times corrected, he 
grasps his mustache as a sort of rein by which he holds 
himself in. She couldn’t understand it at all, and she 
didn’t ! Three days of the week, one hour each day, he 
makes honest effort thereat, more than exhausting his 
English. He stops, hideously profane — but in German, 
and under his breath, — while Miss Loo sits still, her fair 
fingers slumbering on the keys, perfectly cheerful, waiting 
for him to go on. She has nothing else to do, and she 
takes lessons for years. Pentzmenkey ceases even to pour 
out his soul to his wife on the subject, gets used to it — is 
not “Mees Meels ” a standing income to him! In time 
she learns to play certain tunes — very beautifully, too; 
but it is only Pentzmenkey, at last, playing them by her 
— a sort of mechanism from long-continued rote, worked 
by him even when his hand is for the moment off the crank. 

“ Oh, I’m so glad he’s gone !” Miss Loo remarks with a 
yawn to her mother, intruding into that lady’s bedroom 
and wakening her out of a sound sleep, when the deluded 
visitor is at last departed. “ I thought he never would go, 
I was so sleepy. Besides, I’m dying for a little more of 
that delicious jelly-cake. Where are the keys, Ma ?” 

“ She is so verj^ beautiful !” the visitor groans to him- 
self as he walks home — “ so exceedingly beautiful !” Now 
the Margaret whom Faust so violently loved was not 
beautiful at all — only a coarse peasant girl, toughened and 
hardened and bronzed by unceasing drudgery from morn- 
ing till night. As Mephistopheles remarked when he gave 
Faust the witch’s broth, it would make him imagine the 
next woman, whoever she was, a Venus. And though this 

4 


50 


The New Timothy. 


poor young fellow was intoxicated too, his Margaret was, 
beyond all doubt, an exceedingly beautiful woman. But 
people somehow always yielded that to Miss Loo as with 
a groan. 

It is as the sun is setting, a week after this, behind Gen- 
eral Likens’s orchard, that Charles Wall drives up to the 
front gate of the general’s place, having John seated be- 
side him in his buggy, the General himself, who has es- 
corted them from Hoppleton, riding upon his invariable 
roan behind. 

“ We’ll let the men have the parlor to themselves, child, 
while we stay here at the table and have a good talk.” It 
is Mrs. General Likens who says it, the same evening after 
supper. “ Deary me, I’m so glad to see you, to be sure ! 
Do try an’ eat a little more, while I wash up the cups and 
saucers ; you’ve eat no supper at all. Have a hot biscuit ? 
Let me fill your cup again? No? You really won’t? 
Well, draw nearer the fire — Moll, get some more kindlin’ 
— an’ I’ll turn a little so as I can see you while I wash up. 
How well you do look, to be sure !” 


At Hoppleton. 


51 


CHAPTER VI. 

In which Charles Wall and John Easton ascend Parnassus. 

J UST here ! One of the manifold defects of Mr. Charles 
Wall — not our hero, and we will represent him as hu- 
man as he was — consisted in not caring for landscape. Place 
him in a gallery of art, and, unless it is Alps, Yosemite, or 
Niagara, he passes rapidly over all specimens of mere wood, 
and plain, and water, in search of pictures involving men 
and women — the kings, you know, and queens of all these. 
It is an inland state of the south-west in which he is now 
abiding. All the way from Hoppleton merely post-oak and 
sands up hill and down quite unromantic dale; here and 
there gullies have been washed open by the rains, and lie 
like raw wounds between the road and the fields of what 
was corn or cotton. Negroes, under fostering care of the 
ever-present overseer, are engaged in breaking down the 
stalks of corn or cotton plant, and heaping them in piles 
for burning. There is a profound emblem of the perpetual 
procession of destruction going before creation in all this, 
only the little negroes are not aware of it as they run with 
flaming torch from pile to pile. Except to keep Mike, his 
new horse, from scaring, Mr. Wall pays no heed to these 
scenes common to him from his birth. In fact, he is im- 
parting valuable information on quite a variety of topics 
to his companion ; not understanding himself why he would 
rather General Likens should not ride quite so close behind. 
Landscape? No sir; life is all Aristotle, and di priori to 
him; Yerulam, d posteriori^ and sense not yet! 


52 


The New Timothy. 


Please like Mrs. General Linkens, dear reader. Every 
body did who knew her. For any respectable person to 
have lived in the county and not to have been at the Gen- 
eral’s would have been a wonder. Somehow, without 
dreaming of such a thing, you were certain, by a sort of 
fate, to stop, in passing, at the well in the front yard for a 
drink. Next you found yourself sitting in a hide-bottom 
chair, its wood scoured to whiteness, in the long front pi- 
azza of the house. Then, there you were at the table, as 
if you had lived there all your life, eating and listening to 
Mrs. General Likens. Ten to one you found yourself at 
last — at a late hour, too — in the best bedroom, well tucked 
in under the red stars of the best quilt, smelling so of 
lavender — Mrs. General Likens’s broiled chicken and light 
biscuit sitting well on your stomach, but Mrs. General 
Likens’s voice ringing still in your ears. 

There was actually something of the Web of the Spider 
about that low-roofed hon^^stead. But I would be 
ashamed of myself if I mentioned, in connection with such 
a metaphor, that Mrs. General Likens was always spinning 
long threads from a humming wheel in the back-shed 
room, standing beside it the tallest, thinnest lady, her out- 
stretched arm reaching farther, her fingers holding the 
thread the longest ever known ; or else she was seated on 
a low rocking-chair in the front piazza, knitting long blue 
stockings, with the thread of yarn stretching away to the 
ball lying yards off on the thoroughly-scoured floor. Nor 
do I intend to add, in such connection, that Mrs. General 
Likens had any nose and chin at all — their length, and 
that of her tongue too, forbid any allusion to them what- 
ever. Mrs. General Likens spun habitually other lines, 
also ; longer than all these tied together — lines of poetry ! 
It would be improper, having alluded to a spider’s web, 
to state that the General was short and stout, and local 


Mrs. General Likens. 


53 


when in the house — his wife around and around him all 
the time, he perfectly still in his arm-chair, either at table, 
by the fire, or on the front piazza — because this and his 
blue jean trowsers, very full in the seat, might suggest an 
idea of a bluebottle fly. Let all such vain fancies be dis- 
carded ; for only once get well acquainted with the Gen- 
eral and his wife, and you know of none whom you respect 
more highly. 

‘‘ And you’ve been so long a-coming, too, child,” contin- 
ued Mrs. General Likens, as she washed and wiped the 
cups and saucers, with a towel thrown over her left shoul- 
der, three yards long at least. “ I expected you when we 
had strawberries; then when the raspberries came; then 
when we had melons. I was certain you would be here 
in peach-time. I’ve been real hurt, and when you knew 
your mother, too, was — stayed — ” 

“Oh, Mrs. Likens,” interrupted John, “I’ve wanted to 
come. But you know how it is. Mr. Wall does not keep 
any carriage. Even if he did, I had no one to come with 
me.” 

“Mrs. General Likens, I’m usually called,* my dear, 
though you needn’t mind about that. Yes, but when Mr. 
Wall — the uncle, you know — came at our communion that 
time, what a blessed meeting it was ! I never heard any 
body preach like him in all my life. You ought to have 
seen the General. He sat there on the front seat at church 
still as a stone, a-drinking in every word. Preaching three 
times a day for a week, we had. We all only wished it 
was six times a day, and meeting protracted forever. Our 
James, you know, made a profession then. He couldn’t 
bear Mr. Merkes. ‘ Too sour for me, Ma,’ he would say, 
and make a face all wry like, as if he had bitten a green 
persimmon. In spite of myself, I’d laugh. But Mr. Wall ! 
From the first sermon he preached James listened for his 


54 


The New Timothy. 


life. I’d been praying for him — you know he was our only 
child — for years. I’d a kind o’ hope in Mr. Wall’s coming. 
His preaching had been so much blessed everywhere else, 
I said to myself, ‘Who knows? who knows?’ and prayed 
special for James. When I saw him listen so I felt some 
hope ; but when I tried to talk to him he said, ‘ Not now, 
Ma, if you please,’ so grave like I hushed right up. ‘ Don’t 
you say one word to him, Polly,’ the General said. I didn’t, 
though it was very hard. One night about the middle of 
thfe meeting we heard him praying in a low voice like in 
his room. It was right over our bed. The General and I 
kneeled down together on the spot, I tell you! About 
day — little before — some one came into our room. ‘ Who’s 
that ?’ I said, wide awake, for I sleep like a lynx — one eye 
and both ears open. ‘ Don’t be afraid, it’s only me, Ma,’ 
he said ; ‘ I couldn’t wait till day !’ Such a hugging and 
kissing and thanking God I don’t suppose you ever heard ! 
It wasn’t three months after that he came to die. ‘Heady 
to go any hour now, Ma,’ he said from the start. ‘ God 
bless that Mr. Wall !’ he said.” And John listened with 
interest as the old lady told the long story of the dying 
hours of her only child. 

“ But the reason I could not come that time,” said John 
at last, “ was because Mr. Ramsey was so anxious to go. 
We had it all arranged that I was to ride in the buggy. 
But Mr. Ramsey plead to come, and Mr. Wall said he could 
not do without his presence and his prayers. And so I 
St aid — willingly. ” 

The fact is, it was Laura Wall, not John, who was to 
have accompanied upon this trip the young minister, only 
she had declined to do so, when it was proposed, with a 
vehemence amazing in one so habitually quiet and gentle. 
The truth is, Laura Wall had, some months before this, 
thrown up her hands with an “ Oh, Mr. Merkes !” of actual 


Moee of Me. Meekes. 


55 


horror when that gentleman had one day asked her, on a 
visit to her father’s in Hoppleton, to marry him. And, 
when urged by Mr. Merkes to “ think over the matter, at 
least,” her only reply had been, “Think of it! No, sir! 
not for an instant !” in tones sharper even than when she 
detected an invading calf in the act of devouring her 
choicest hydrangea. Of course Mr. Merkes was effectually 
roused towards her. He had hoped that she was unlike, 
superior to the perverse world about him. When, after 
long absence, he revisited the house his whole manner to- 
wards her was, “ I am aware. Miss, you heartily desire an 
opportunity of undoing your dreadful mistake ! I thank 
you. Miss, never !” 

Part of Mr. Merkes’s woe was that she had instantly 
made known his offer and her rejection thereof to every 
body. He saw that in the very manner of the clerk, in 
Hoppleton, of whom he bought a saddle-blanket, and was 
charged too much for it at that, a week after. Even Uncle 
Simeon, holding his horse when he visited next at General 
Likens’s, old and infirm as he was, smiled when he took 
the bridle in a way which convinced Mr. Merkes that all 
the negroes, even, throughout the neighborhood had got 
hold of the story. He read his discomfiture in the titter 
of every girl at Sunday-school, even in the corners of the 
eyes and mouths of his soberest members. 

Of course Laura Wall had never breathed a syllable 
about it even to her own father or mother. “ It is too ri- 
diculous — I can’t !” had been her thought. Even if Mr. 
Merkes had known of her silence it would only have ag- 
gravated his suffering. “Did not even regard an offer 
from me of sufficient importance to mention it !” he would 
have said to himself. But the possibility of meeting Mr. 
Merkes at General Likens’s house was enough to keep 
Laura Wall away. 


56 


The New Timothy. 


Mrs. General Likens is not silent all this time. 

“ Ah, well, child, you are here now,” said that lady, wip- 
ing her eyes with a long handkerchief from her bag, and 
putting it carefully back again. “ I’m going to keep you 
here as long as I can. Only wait till after prayers to- 
night and ril read you ” — and she smiled benevolently on 
her young guest — “ some lines I wrote on James’s death. 
I’ve some, too — several pieces — on Mr. Wall’s preaching. 
You shall hear them all.” 

Now John had long heard of Mrs. General Likens’s 
poetrjT-, To listen to some of it was the grievous toll that 
every stranger through her gates had to pay, unless that 
stranger, more cunning than a fox, more slippery than an 
eel, managed to evade the infliction. During Mr. Wall’s 
visit it had taxed even his genial piety to the utmost. 
As to Mr. Merkes, the quantity he had listened to was 
appalling, and had gone far towards brimming the cup of 
his woes. For Mrs. General Likens instinctively accepted 
and inflexibly applied the maxim — “ Drink deep or taste 
not the Pierian Spring !” The General heard every line 
his wife wrote before the ink was dry, still as a stone in 
his chair, or moving only to keep his pipe filled and lighted. 
He did not mind it; the lines were only a part of the 
sound of his wife’s tongue, distracting him no more than 
the clucking of the maternal hens about the house. 
Honestly she believed that it was as great a pleasure to 
others to hear as it was to her to write ; believed it so heart- 
ily as to remain blind and deaf to every possible intima- 
tion — and she had received a great many — to the contrary. 
Some theme would strike her in the morning, and all day, 
while spinning, knitting, in kitchen and dairy and poultry- 
yard, would she be weaving the fabric of her verse, getting 
it by heart as she proceeded. Then, while the General 
snored in deep diapason in the bed at night, the precious 


Mrs. General Likens’s Poetry. 


57 


lines were written out on foolscap — all too short for the 
purpose — on the well-worn, ink-spotted little desk in the 
corner. In the little dark closet under the staircase were 
trunks of it ; but as Mrs. General Likens was in a state of 
perpetual production, she rarely went back beyond the ef- 
fusions of the last six months. Yet, had the old house got 
on fire, all that poetry would have been placed far beyond 
the devouring flames by her before she would have even 
thought of her stores of yarn ; stronger language than 
that can not be used. Yes, nature had constructed Mrs. 
General Likens to utter herself She never resorted to pa- 
per when there was any living ear at hand to listen. If, 
then, she preferred poetry, it was because she could thus 
lengthen out what she had to say to an extent and tenuity 
of which prose did not admit. 

Is it inconsistent with profound reverence to say that 
there must be a sense of the ludicrous in the great Crea- 
tor ? Surely there is an intimation of the infinite geniality 
of His adorable nature in bringing about that Mrs. Gen- 
eral Likens should write, yea, and should persist in reading, 
too, her verses to wdncing auditors. If holy spirits indeed 
hover over this world of ours, interested spectators of all 
that takes place, that they should weep over its miseries 
is utterly inconsistent with the perfect happiness they pos- 
sess ; it is quite possible that they should smile at much 
they daily behold. If this dear soul added a little to the 
sorrows of her friends on earth, depend upon it she added 
largely to the happiness of her friends in heaven — to their 
genial amusement, celestial laughter ! 

“ Look out for the poetry, John, and don’t get rude !” 
was the last thing Laura had said to John in parting at 
the buggy — said it with a laugh. She had only known of 
that poetry by hearsay — had she herself ever been exposed 
to it she never could have jested on so serious a subject. 


58 


The New Timothy. 


At this moment, supper things being cleared away, Gen* 
eral Likens and his guest are called in. The large Bible, 
so thoroughly used as to require dexterous handling to 
keep the loose, age-darkened leaves in place, is laid on the 
table. A chair is placed beside it. The tallow candle is 
carefully snuffed with the tongs and put on one side the 
book. The General reads a chapter, a few verses of a 
familiar hymn are sung, J ohn’s voice aiding to sweeten the 
tones of her hostess. Then a prayer, and Charles and John 
rise from their knees anxious for bed. Mrs. General Likens 
has no such idea ; the General has. 

“ I’ll show Mr. Wall to his room,” he says, taking up the 
candlestick. “ Light another candle, Polly, and take Miss 
to bed too. Now doriut talk to her any more to-night,” he 
adds, in an imploring tone to his wife. “ I know she’s 
tired ; let her get a good night’s sleep, and you can go at 
her fresh in the morning !” 

And, with a good-night, the gentlemen disappear from 
the room. 

“You mustn’t be surprised at the General, child,” says 
his wife, having lighted her candle from the fire. “ He’s 
amazing slow, but he’s sensible. As if I would want to 
break your rest ! Come, child,” and John follows her 
gladly up the narrow steps of the steep staircase into a 
small, neat room. “ James’s room,” says her hostess, in 
explanation. “ He’s in a better mansion now, and we’ll 
all soon follow. I’ve got that poetry here in my bag ; 
took it out of the desk just before prayers, and put it there 
so as not to forget. You just begin to take off your 
things, and I’ll read it to you while you unhook.” 

And Mrs. General Likens placed the candle — a whole 
one — on the table, with its white cotton cover fringed with 
cotton lace, and drawing up a chair beside it, adjusted her 
spectacles, and proceeded to untie the yarn wound about 


Mrs. General Likens’s Reminiscences. 59 

a roll of foolscap. “You would like to hear it, child, 
wouldn’t you ?” she asked, in a way that took an affirma.- 
tive as a matter of course. Now John did not wish to 
hear a line, and it was not in her nature to equivocate. 
There was -one alternative before her. 

“ But you promised to tell me about my mother, you 
know, Mrs. Likens. For years I’ve wanted to see you and 
have you talk to me about her. We can’t stay with you 
long, and I’m afraid I won’t hear at last,” said her young 
guest, slowly undressing. 

“Well, the* General told me not to talk to you — Mrs. 
General Likens, they call me, child ; but the poetry can 
wait till I’ve done. You .see it was this way,” said the old 
lady, throwing her spectacles up from her nose on her head, 
adjusting her cap-border, and settling herself in her chair 
for a good talk. “ It must have been some fifteen or six- 
teen years ago. We lived in old Virginia then. We had 
a home among the mountains — a better place than this it 
was. Our house was right on the stage-road. We hated’ 
it dreadful ; passengers would walk up the mountain to 
4ase the stage. The road was terrible steep; and they 
would always stop in for a drink of water. I didn’t mind 
that, for it gave me a chance to have a good deal of agree- 
able talk when they came to the front porch for the gourd, 
only they always left the front gate open, and the hogs 
would get in constant. There was the garden, too, along- 
side the road. The stage passed twice a week ; and twice 
every week, Mondays and Wednesdays it was, in fruit 
time, the garden was sure to be full of passengers getting 
strawberries, raspberries, apples, quinces, nectarines, peach- 
es, green-gages — whatever it was. We kept a dog — Tige 
we called him ; but he bit a passenger one day climbing 
up a pear-tree, and the General had the boys give him 
away. They broke the palings, too. Ah, well, child. I’ll 


60 


The New Timothy. 


come to it — needn’t tell me. Dear me, what a white skin 
you have got — just like your mother. Well, one day — let 
me see — yes, it teas in the summer, because I was sitting 
out on the front porch knitting, I heard the stage coming 
up the mountain, when a gentleman opened the front 
gate ; didn’t stop to shut it behind him, but came up the 
walk as fast! He was all pale and panting and out of 
breath. He lifted his hat as he come near — I saw at once 
he was a gentleman — and said, ‘This is Mrs. General Li- 
kens, I believe ? I come to beg, Madam, that you will 
take my wife — she is in the stage behind — and myself in 
for a day or two.’ ‘ It isn’t our custom to take in stran- 
gers,’ I said. ‘ But, Madam, my wife is ill — really ill,’ he 
said. ‘ Oh, if that’s the case,’ said I, ‘ certainly, certainly.’ 
By this time the stage was at the gate. Just as soon as 
he opened the stage-door to help her out I saw it all at 
once, and hurried down. I tell you, child, she was the 
sweetest young creature, I do believe, I ever saw in my life. 
She looked up at me so helpless like, just as if I was her own 
mother ; and I had her in the house, in the best room, her 
things all off, and her safe in bed in no time. I tell you, it 
was high time she was out of that stage, jolting about over 
the mountains. ‘ You foolish young thing,’ I said ; and 
then she told me how Mr. Easton, her husband, had mar- 
ried her somewhere — about Richmond, wasn’t it ? and then 
had to be absent several months out West hunting a home 
— a merchant, wasn’t he ? He had found a place, made all 
his plans to move out, was in a hurry to carry his wife 
home. ‘ I hated to tell him, you know. Madam,’ she said; 
and then she began to cry. ‘ Oh, these men 1’ I said. ‘ Bless 
their souls, but they are mighty stupid about some things !’ 
However, I cheered her up ; said how glad I was it was 
our house she happened in at ; and then I told her some 
of my troubles. Sit down on the bed, child,” continued 


John’s Pakents. 


61 


Mrs. General Likens to her young guest ; “ hut you needn’t 
have brought that night-gown with you ; I’ve got a plen- 
ty, I hope. I’ll show you some I worked when I was to 
be married to the General ; they ain’t even frayed yet — 
real linen. Well, I must get along, or we won’t get to the 
poetry to-night. Same week your father had a little 
daughter. Yes, it was under my roof you were born, child 
— and I’m glad to see you under it again. Where was 
that father of yours raised, child ?” 

“ In Virginia, Mrs. Li — Mrs. General Likens. My moth- 
er was too,” said John, venturing to prop herself up a little 
against the head-board of the old-fashioned bedstead with 
one of the large ruffled pillows. 

“ Oh yes ; I know about your mother well enough. Any 
body could see that. She was as soft and plump and sweet 
and rosy as a June peach. I declare she was the smiling- 
est, sweetest little wife I ever did see ! I don’t want to 
wound your feelings, but I declare I thought your father 
was a Yankee. He was a tall, handsome, mighty neatly 
dressed man. He was a pious man, too ; for in the six 
weeks he was with us he led in prayer at family worship 
often. But he was such a straight-forward, straight-spoken 
sort of a man, so prompt, so decided like. The idea of carry- 
ing his young wife right straight off to his new home the 
instant it was ready, stopping for nothing !” 

And while the old lady pauses a moment to snuff the 
candle with her long finger and thumb, previously dampen- 
ed for the purpose at her lips, it may be added that Mr. 
Easton was a sort of New England man, only born at the 
South — clear-headed, energetic. Of a singularly practical 
character, he prided himself on looking neither upon the 
dark side nor the bright side of things only, but upon ev- 
ery thing exactly as it was, apart from its lights and shad- 
ows. As to his wife, it was her childlike ways, her sunny 


62 


The New Timothy. 


sweetness, and a certain low music in her voice, which had 
won her husband’s heart. The youngest of her father’s 
family, she was from birth the pet and darling. Hers was 
an old-fashioned, pious ancestry — and there is something 
even of piety bequeathed in blood and nurture, giving addi- 
tional purity and glow to a person such as Rubens loved 
to paint, so fond and dimpled. It was because of the con- 
trast to himself that her husband loved her. 

And so you are Ms daughter and her daughter !” said 
the old lady, taking a good look at John in the brightened 
shining of the candle. “Yes, child, you look like your 
mother, certain. Never mind, I ain’t going to flatter you 
— flattery is bad for young girls. People flattered me too 
much when I was young. You look like your father, too 
— something about the nose, the mouth, the- eye — don’t 
know where. You only have the hard sense of your Pa, 
child, and the sweetness of your Ma, and you’ll be nigh per- 
fect,! reckon. But what became of your Pa and Ma when 
they went West? I wanted to ask Mr. Wall when he 
was here, but he was so busy preaching.” 

“ My father was a merchant in the same town six years. 
I was their first and only child, and they spoiled me, I’m 
afraid. My mother seemed to love my father and myself 
even more, I believe, than mothers generally do. I’ll show 
you her miniature some day,” said John, now wide awake 
and sitting up in a chair. “ At last she sickened slowly 
and died. Oh, she was so beautiful, Mrs. Likens — Mrs. 
General Likens ; such glad eyes, and glowing cheeks, and 
coral lips, and winning ways to the last ; every body al- 
most idolized her. I’ve been told so often. When she was 
dying you know the strange request she made, as she left 
no boy, that I might be called ‘ John,’ after her husband 
she loved so well. It was only a sick fancy, j)erhaps, but 
my dear father respected it. Hardly three years after 
and he was gone too,” 


John and Me. Wall, Senior. 


63 


“ Broke all to pieces, wasn’t he ?” asked the old lady. 

“ He was rich when my mother died,” said John, softly, 
“ but after that he seemed to care almost nothing for his 
affairs. His partner defrauded him in some way, and he 
was ruined.” 

“ And how was it Mr. Wall raised you ?” asked her host- 
ess, more and more deeply interested in the young girl, 
whose striking loveliness, as she sat with dishevelled hair 
in her night-dress, was heightened by their theme. 

“ My father was the wealthiest member, the most active 
member, in Mr. Wall’s church when he lived. I do not 
know how it was, but for years before my mother’s death I 
had become a kind of pet in Mr. Wall’s family — we lived 
near together ; in fact, every body seemed to pet me, then, 
and ever since,” she added with a smile. I don’t know 
why it is.” 

“ Ah, Avell, we can guess,” said Mrs. General Likens, with 
a motherly nod of her head. 

“ After Ma’s death,” continued John, with ablush, “ I al- 
most lived at Mr. Wall’s. There was no one at home but 
the servants — that is, all day when Pa was at the store. 
When he went to the North to buy goods he always left 
me there, they begged for me so. During all his sickness 
it was ther,e I remained. After my father’s death they 
all seemed to love me more than ever. I believe I have 
an aunt somewhere who wrote for me, but Mr. Wall did 
not like the letter, or something of the kind. While he 
was waiting for some providence to decide the matter it 
decided itself, and that is all. When Mr. Wall moved to 
Hoppleton I came too with the family.” 

“ I suppose you know it, child, but Mr. Wall thinks the 
world of you. ‘ I’ve seen a great many children in my 
day, ma’am,’ he said to me when he was here, and I was 
askin’ after you, ‘ but I never saw such a thoroughly sweet 


64 


The New Timothy. 


and perfectly sensible girl in all my life.^ Yes, I know 
I oughtn’t to have told you that. Perhaps he’s all mis- 
taken ; he’s such a warm-hearted man he’s almost certain 
to think too well of people — -just as Mr. Merkes thinks too 
bad of them. You see, Mr. Wall thinks every body he 
meets is good, just like him, and Mr. Merkes thinks every 
body he meets is just like — No, I mustn’t say that — he’s 
our minister, and he’s a most excellent man, somewhere at 
the bottom under every thing, I do believe. And so you 
keep house for them, child, do you ?” asked the old lady. 

“No, Madam. Why who could have told you that?” 
asked John, with a start of surprise. 

“ Same man,” replied the old lady, with a smile. “ Let’s 
see. ‘ She’s a treasure, ma’am,’ he said. ‘Mrs. Wall’s an 
invalid ; Laura devotes herself to flowers, visiting the sick, 
helping at weddings ; and John keeps house, keeps the 
keys of the smoke-house, pantry, cellar ;’ I think he said 
corn-crib, but ain’t certain. ‘ She’s a darling little old lady,’ 
he said ; ‘ an’ her name, John, fits her like a cap.’ Sing’iar, 
wasn’t it ? Are you a professor, child ?” asked the old lady, 
rather suddenly, in conclusion. 

“ A member of the church ?” asked her companion, after 
a little hesitation. 

“ Of course, child, yes, a professor of religion.” 

“ Yes, Madam,” replied John. 

“ Glad to hear it,” said the old lady, sincerely pleased. 
“ I was sure of it. It isn’t late, I reckon. We haven’t 
talked much, for the General said we’d better not ; can’t 
you tell me some of your experience ?” 

“ I have not had any, ma’am,” said John, after a mo- 
ment’s hesitation, taking a seat again, by the instinct of a 
wearied nature, on the bed. 

“No experience !” exclaimed her companion, in tones of 
unmingled wonder. 


John’s Religious Experience. 


65 


“None worth telling you,” exclaimed John. 

“Yes, but I want to know when you w’ere converted,” 
said the old lady ; “ how the light first broke ; how long 
you were mourning for sin before ; something of your 
doubts and fears since then. You needn’t say much, for 
we must come to the poetry. I know you are anxious to 
hear it.” 

“ My religious experience is very little,” said John, desir- 
ous of making some return for the deep interest of her new 
friend. “ I was trained from my birth, you know, by pious 
parents. I can not remember when I did not kneel morn- 
ing and night by my mother’s side to say my little prayers. 
We always had family worship, too, and I went to Sunday- 
school from the time I could walk, and to church too. 
Ever since I have lived in Mr. Wall’s family it has been 
the same.” 

“But didn’t you never experience a change of heart, 
child ? You know the Saviour said, ‘ Ye must be born 
again,’ ” said the old lady, with grave apprehension. 

“ Yes, ma’am,” John makes reply, with hesitation, “ I 
hope I have had such a change ; but I don’t know when it 
took place. I never think about that.” 

“Yes, child, but what proof do you have?” Mrs. General 
Likens asks, with anxiety. 

“ I try to love the Bible and the Sabbath,” her compan- 
ion replies, with lowered eyes and voice. “ I think I do 
love to pray ; and I know I love the Saviour, and I try to 
serve Him as well as I can every day,” John adds, after 
quite a pause. 

“ But don’t you have any exercises of mipd — any wrast- 
lin’ with the devil? All his waves an’ his billows don’t 
they sometimes roll over you ? You mustn’t be offended, 
but you take things like Brown Bob Long out here. I’m 
not going to say Bob ain’t a real disciple; but he takes 


66 


The New Timothy. 


things so even like — so quiet and simple. Any way, I’ve 
powerful exercises ! — up in the garret, down in the cellar ! 
But writing my feelin’s out in my poetry is some relief 
too : only relief except prayer. Ah ! child,” added the old 
lady, drawing in a very long breatli and slowly shaking 
her head, “ you are only a babe in Christ yet ; you haven’t 
hail any experiences. You mayn’t believe it, but I’ve got 
a large blank-book, which the General bought to keep his 
accounts in, full from one end to the other of verses I’ve 
wrote in some of my frames of mind. If I live I’ll read it 
all to you !” 

By this time the young traveller was lying entirely down 
upon the bed, almost asleep in spite of herself. 

‘‘ That’s right, child,” said the old lady. ‘‘ Only get un- 
der the cover; you’ll take cold. We mustn’t talk any 
more to-night. I’ll sit here and read you a few pieces while 
you rest yourself.” 

So saying, the favored of the Muses unrolled her long 
bundle, carefully selected a sheet, snuffed the candle 
afresh, drew her glasses down on her eyes, took them off 
and wiped them carefully, replaced them, and, with a pre- 
paratory clearing of the throat, was just about to begin. 
At this instant there was a voice from below, of entreaty 
rather than command : 

“Polly! old woman! do come down! you’ll kill that 
poor child !” 

“ In a moment. General — you go to sleep !” was the shrill 
reply. 

Whistle a lioness from its tender prey — a young fawn 
lying passive under its paw? Not exactly. And the 
poetess remorselessly read on. She was too deeply inter- 
ested in her lines to glance, even, at her companion. Fin- 
ished at last. 

“ Stop !” she said, eagerly, when the last line of the first 


Asleep. 


67 


piece was read. “Don’t ex23ress any opinion, child, till 
you’ve heard this next piece. It’s better than the other, I 
do believe.” And she dashed into it, rejoicing in so atten- 
tive a listener. When she had finished the candle-wick 
towered aloft like a column among the ruins of Greece. 

“ Well, child, what do you think of that ?” she asked, as 
she slowly snuffed the wick. “You’ve listened first-rate. 
But don’t flatter me — I don’t like it. When people do, I’m 
always afeard they ain’t sincere.” 

A slow, soft breathing was the only reply. 

“ Asleep ! sound asleep, as I live !” exclaimed Mrs. Gen- 
eral Likens, standing over the bed, and with some disap- 
pointment in her face and tones. 

Yes, and from the moment she began, without the least 
intention on the part of the sleeper, sound asleep, her fair 
cheek pillowed on one open palm. As the old lady looked 
upon her the shade of displeasure passed from her brow. 

“ ’Tis astonishing,” she said to herself, “ what music there 
is in them lines ! It must be in the even rhymes followin’ 
each other so pat. And she w^as tired too. Never mind, 
dear; I’ll try and read them all over again to you soon’s 
I can.” 

And with a soft, motherly kiss upon the cheek of the 
sleeper, a careful tucking in of the starry quilt at the sides, 
shading her wasted candle with her hand, Mrs. General Li- 
kens descended the steps with stealthy tread. As she 
carefully crept under the cover to the side of her sleeping 
lord he woke up enough to growl : “ Oh, Polly, if you only 
cijuld keep from talking so much what a blessing ’twould 
be 1” and was snoring again in a moment after. 


68 


The New Timothy. 


Chapter VII. 

A Sunday at General Likens's. 

T^ID you ever notice, Mr. Wall, that Sunday is almost 
sure to be the brightest, calmest, most delightful 
day of all the week, like this one, for instance?” 

It is John that speaks, meeting Charles Wall on the 
front porch next morning. A sound sleep has restored 
her completely from the fatigues of her journey and of 
Mrs. General Likens. 

‘‘The best part of the calm and brightness is in your 
own bosom, John,” he replies. “I used to wish God had 
ordered it so that the bees and ants and all living things 
would rest on Sabbath. What a proof that would be of 
the law of Heaven about the Sabbath ! I do believe Na- 
ture does keep Sabbath — a little, at least. See how silent- 
ly the leaves of that live-oak are stirring. And the bees 
on that range of hives by the palings are not flying about 
— dressing their wings, don’t you see them? as if for 
church. The Guinea-fowls must make their hideous noise, 
I suppose ; they can’t stop to save their lives ; but you can 
barely hear them — gone ofl^ far from the house for the pur- 
pose.” 

But now they are called in to prayers, and after that 
they go in to breakfast. The same bright repose upon 
every thing within the house, too. The General is shaved 
and dressed in his best, and sits at the head of his table 
pleasant but silent. Mrs. General Likens wears a stiff and 
snowy cap, and the calm sleeps almost unbroken even upon 


Peepakations foe Peeaching. 


69 


her lips. The very girl waiting at table has an unusual 
whiteness of teeth and of apron and sobriety of manner, as 
she hands the colFee and butter and honey and biscuit. 

After breakfast the young minister strolls oli into the 
forest near by to look over his sermon before preaching, 
and is warned by the General not to be gone over an hour, 
as in that time they must “start for meetin’ John reads 
by the fire, with the General absorbed in the large Bible 
in his arm-chair on the other side thereof ; while his wife 
is all over the house, up stairs and down, settling things 
for her absence at church. 

“ Time to start,” the General says at last, looking at the 
old clock in the corner; and in a few moments they are 
off, Charles in his buggy with John, the General following 
in his Jersey wagon. “ You go on,” the General had said 
to Charles, waving him on with his whip and an air of res- 
ignation, as he sat in the front seat of his wagon, his wife 
on the seat behind him, her head out screaming different 
charges for the twentieth time to Moll, and Pete, and Ike, 
and Isham. “ I’ll catch up after a while,” the General had 
added, with an air of cheerful melancholy. He had not 
been the husband of his wife thirty years not to know all 
her ways by this time. 

Charles drives slowly along, utterly ignorant of the 
right road. But the General catches up with him, and 
asks^ speedily, for his wife had “ clean forgotten it,” “ Mr. 
Wall, won’t you have a bite of something before you go 
into the pulpit ?” Mr. Wall declines with thanks and sur- 
prise. Mrs. General Likens reaches forward her long arm 
from the back seat of their wagon, lays her hand on the 
reins in the General’s hand as he is driving past, to add, 

“ You’d better, now ! We’ve plenty in the basket here. 
Why, when Mr. Merkes first settled among us he boarded 
at our house, and we always had a biscuit for him to put 


'TO 


The New Timothy. 


in his pocket, so’s he might nibble a little just before he 
took his text. His stomach, you know, was ruined at the 
Seminary preparing for the ministry. Necessary, I sup- 
pose. Preachers oughter be thoroughly furnished, I know. 
Biscuit ? Never was a Sunday we didn’t carry a little jDOt 
of coffee to the church for him. Took it right off the fire 
as we left the house. I carried it careful in my lap here. 
More’n once the General he hit the wheel against the 
stump going and splashed my things drefful ! Carried it 
into church wrapped in a newspaper, you see ; but, bless 
you, the people all knew !” 

But here the General gives his near horse a cut with his 
whip, and the wagon passes them. Mrs. General Likens ex- 
postulating. The young minister makes desperate effort 
to go on with his sermon, and to listen at the same time to 
a plan John is detailing to endow, when she gets rich, a liv- 
ery-stable in connection with every seminary for ministers. 

“ A livery-stable !” 

‘‘Yes; but listen to my plan. Suppose there are two 
hundred students. Well, I would buy as many horses as 
I possibly could, say a hundred. Then I would build a 
stable for them. Then I would make it a law that every 
student should take at least one really long, good ride every 
day — make him promise to do so when he entered. You 
see, half of them could ride in the morning, the other half 
in the afternoon.” 

“Yes, and every Saturday morning,” said Charles, laugh- 
ing, “you would have the professors examine the delin- 
quents as they do about failure in attending chapel : “ Mr. 
A. did not ride on Wednesday morning — the reason of this, 
Mr. A., if you please.’ ” 

“Yes; and ‘Mr. A., you will ride twice a day next 
week, to make up,’ I would have him say,” continued John.^ 
with her face perfectly sober. 


Muscular Christians. 


'71 


“ What an idea !” interrupted Charles, laughing, and giv- 
ing his horse an unnecessary cut with the whip. ‘‘The notion 
of half the Seminarians, ‘ long and lank and lean,’ trotting 
away every morning after chapel like a regiment — squad- 
ron I believe it is — of cavalry ! What a queer crowd they 
would make ! In the afternoon, too, instead of the long 
stream of black coats walking two and two down the side- 
walks arguing away, the whole crowd of them on horses, 
tearing along the road, kicking up a dust, laughing and 
cutting away at each other’s horses ! But how about the 
professors ?” 

“ I’d have them ride too, on special horses, to set an ex- 
ample to the students as well as for their own health. 
Yes, out from their close libraries and large arm-chairs and 
books and pens once, at least, every day in the pure air, 
riding out, looking at the beautiful world, seeing people en- 
joying themselves. I’d have the nicest buggies for them as 
they got old — but out every single day except Sunday if it 
wasn’t actually storming. You know Christ and all his dis- 
ciples lived out of doors; something so fresh and strong 
in them, natural and beautiful !” 

Her companion meditates over it : 

“There was John Knox — yes he teas a huge, large fi&ted 
hero. Poor, trembling, wicked, beautiful Mary ! Martin 
Luther, too — a yard across the chest, muscular as a buffa- 
lo. Wesley, too — not stout, but wiry and tough, and with 
a body made of steel springs. Chalmers — what a big, bur- 
ly man he was ! Dr. Mason, too, the great preacher, was 
huge and strong. Jonathan Ed wards — a perfect gladiator 
in sinews and bones ! Let me see : Oliver Cromwell ? 
yes. Baxter? yes. Howe? Owen? Whitefield? I de- 
clare I never thought of it before ; all the great Christiana 
were physically strong men. Stop ; no. ‘ His bodily pres- 
ence is weak,’ was said of Paul.” 


12 


The iN’EW Timothy. 


‘‘But he had special inspiration,” suggested John, cling- 
ing to her notion. 

“ Yes ; but there was Calvin — pale, weak — ” 

“Was he not a little gloomy, a little bitter in contro- 
versy ?” asked his companion timidly. 

“ Mustn’t say that,” replied Charles, still thinking it over 
until he woke with a start to find himself at the church. 

As he reins in his horse behind the General’s wagon 
and helps John to alight, he sees with dismay how many 
horses are tied under the trees around, how many dupli- 
cates of the General’s wagon stand about the church in 
every direction. There is a formidable group of farmers 
lounging at the door. Ample accommodation there is, 
for an arbor of boughs, long since dead and dry, extends 
fifty feet from the door, under which are arranged seats 
made of hewn logs supported on stout legs, and so disposed 
that an aisle extends from the door with the seats on either 
side. The plan is for the preacher to stand in the door 
and divide his discourse as impartially as possible between 
the ladies within the building and the still larger congrega- 
tion without. The General wishes to introduce the young 
preacher to every man on the ground. “ITo, no, General 
Likens,” says Charles to him in a low tone, and the young 
minister sinks twenty-five degrees in the General’s estima- 
tion. “Not till after he has preached,” whispers John the 
next instant into the General’s other ear ; “ he thinks it 
will distract his mind from his preaching and the Gen- 
eral nods approvingly. 

Charles passes the gauntlet of curious eyes down the 
aisle of the arbor, and so into the little church, while Mrs. 
General Likens introduces her young friend to every lady 
and half the gentleme^i on the ground. She takes a good 
deal of pride in it, too, for John is very attractive this 
morning, as any one can easily perceive from the evident 


Divine Service. 


73 


admiration of all on the ground, especially the gentlemen. 
Mrs. General Likens finally settles, with John beside her, 
on a seat under the arbor near the church door. 

Inside of the building, Charles finds a chair near the 
pulpit. Mr. Merkes has not yet arrived, so he removes the 
tin bucket of water from the chair to a bench and sits in 
it, finding, after a while, his seat rather damp than other- 
wise, a fact of which a tittering girl or two near by seem 
informed also. He glances around stealthily, far less at his 
ease than he would have been if seated in the pulpit of a 
city church, even; conscious that every one in the room 
is looking at him and coming to conclusions thereupon, and 
he has a general apprehension that said conclusions are 
somewhat unfavorable. 

But Mr. Merkes enters now, tall, thin, cold, his children 
following timidly. Mr. Merkes shakes decorous hands with 
his young brother, but that brother has a vague idea that 
he does it under a sort of protest. He is afraid from Mr. 
Merkes’s manner that he has in some way ofiended him, 
and resolves to be specially careful. Mr. Merkes would 
rather that his young brother had not arrived before him; 
there is a sort of presumption in it. Besides, there are a 
great many more people on the ground than there were 
last Sunday, when Mr. Merkes only was to preach. 

However, the hour of service is fully arrived, Mr. Wall 
takes his appointed place. General Likens raises a hymn, 
and the service begins. It is somewhat embarrassing to 
preach to a congregation in the house which he can see, 
and to another and much larger outside the house which 
he sees only in part. There is a row, likewise, of black 
faces along the cracks of the logs, for the structure is a 
log-cabin. As the minister warms to his sermon there 
come through these cracks frequent exclamations of 

Bless de Lord!” ‘^Yes, honey, dat’s so!” and the like, 


The New Timothy. 


V4 

which rather encouraged him than not. Before he is half 
through he hears Mr. Merkes hunting for the closing hymn 
in the hymn-book, and is terrified to think he may have 
exceeded his allotted time by whole hours even — he had 
been so interested ! He can easily distinguish the voice 
of John in the singing which follows, as she sits beside 
Mrs. General Likens. 

With the benediction the gentlemen in the congregation 
scatter away to look after their horses. The negro serv- 
ants bring into the building from the carriages and wag- 
ons around an amazing quantity of baskets and tin buck- 
ets. The ladies bustle about, Mrs. General Likens never 
ceasing to talk from the moment the benediction was ut- 
tered, spreading clean table-cloths on the benches, and dis- 
posing thereupon saucers of pickles, plates of preserves, 
roasted chickens, ham, pork, sausages, bread, cake, pies, 
pitchers of milk, and the like. Half a dozen cofiee-pots 
bubble upon the grate of the huge stove, and, Mr. Merkes 
having said a very long grace, every body begins helping 
every body else to something ; for it is a basket-meeting.” 

“We’ll take a little walk to the spring, child,” Mrs. 
General Likens observes to John at last; and they pass 
down the arbor aisle among gentlemen and ladies with 
their dinners in their hands, and children eating cake, and 
only cake, managing to grease, in doing so, the dress of ev- 
ery person in the disbanded congregation. John catches, 
as she passes him, the full situation of the late speaker, 
holding a pone of corn bread in one hand, the half of a 
roasted chicken in the other, his appetite satisfied, and des- 
perate as to what is to be done with these remainders 
thereof, in a whirl of being introduced to every body all 
the time. John follows her friend, a ludicrous idea of a 
hen with one chicken flashing for an instant over her mind. 

There is a long row of ladies seated upon a fallen tree 


Dipping. 


75 


near the spring, all of them talking, and not a few of them, 
young and old, likewise engaged in “ dipping ” — not water 
from the clear spring, but in that very different operation 
known throughout the South-west as “ dipping snuff,” to 
which, by the way, may in a great measure be ascribed the 
exceeding sallowness of their complexions. Shall I, for the 
benefit of the dwellers in other regions, describe this ope- 
ration? No; only so far as to say that the fair “dipper” 
holds in her lap a bottle containing the most pungent 
Scotch snuff, and in her mouth a short stick of soft wood, 
the end of which is chewed into a sort of brush. This is 
ever and anon taken out, thrust into the bottle, and re- 
turned to the mouth loaded, as a bee’s leg is with pollen, 
with the yellow powder. It is a matter of politeness to 
pass around the snuff-bottle, just as their husbands and 
brothers pass around the whisky-flask. All the rest is left 
to the reader’s imagination. 

It was half an hour before the ladies, having thus pri- 
vately solaced themselves, returned to the place of wor- 
ship. When they had got fairly seated a sounding ver- 
sion of 

“ When I can read my title clear ” 

gathered in the congregation from every quarter, each in- 
dividual joining in the hymn as he got near enough to the 
spot. A little hurry on the outskirts on the part of the ne- 
groes, finishing their dinners, packing up the cloths, plates, 
knives and forks as they did so, a driving off of the dogs, 
picking up the remains of the dinner about the church, and 
service was resumed. Far more in the mood for preach- 
ing, as ministers always are at their second sermon on the 
same day. 

But this service, too, is over. In a quiet way John man- 
ages to secure a seat with Mrs. General Likens on their re- 
turn, leaving the General to accompany the young minis- 


76 


The New Timothy. 


ter in his buggy when they shall have finished shaking 
hands with the dispersing congregation. And John evi- 
dently has something to, say, but is perplexed to accom- 
plish it, not listening very attentively to her companion, 
who is talking steadily along as usual. 

“ We leave in the morning, you know,” John at last gets 
chance to say, and there is a little matter that I would 
be so glad if you can arrange it for me. I know you are 
accustomed to write — ” 

‘‘ Certainly, child, certainly,” interrupted Mrs. General 
Likens, greatly pleased. I do write, I may say constant. 
Only tell me the subject ; about your dear Ma, or your 
Pa, about this meetin’ to-day — he’s a real good preacher, 
but he isn’t his uncle yet, I tell you — about your last birth- 
day, or the death of any body’s baby you know of ; any 
thing in the world you think of, child, it doesn’t matter 
what ! You only tell me how many j)ages of foolscap 
you’d like it to be ; whether you’d rather it should be 
rhymes, or in blank-verse, or in something, say, between 
the two. I can do it for you to-morrow, perhaps this very 
night, if it’s suitable to the Sabbath. I write in rhymes 
easy enough ; but blank-verse ! I can write as fast as I can 
keep ink on the pen and new paper before me; only let me 
know — ” 

But, Mrs. General Likens,” interrupted her companion, 

don’t mean that ; at least I don’t mean that now. You 
remember you asked me, and I told you, how it was I have 
lived in Mr. Wall’s family till now. I have long wanted 
to teach school. You know Mr. Wall is by no means 
rich ; besides, there are reasons just now ” — she blushed as 
she spoke. ‘‘I have long ago determined to do something 
for myself. I don’t know any thing I can do except teach. 
I thought perhaps I might get a school in this neighbor- 
hood somewhere, and if you would let me board in your 


JoHjf’s Idea. 


11 


house — I only wanted you to be so good as to ask the Gen- 
eral, and find out and write to me as soon as you can.” 
And John had at last got through with a matter which had 
filled her thoughts for weeks — the declaring her intention, 
at least — and it all seemed much easier to her now that she 
had spoken it out. 

“ I was afraid to speak to Mr. Merkes about it,” contin- 
ued Jolin, while Mrs. General Likens hesitated — almost the 
first time in her life. “He was at Mr. Wall’s quite often 
too ; but you know how Mr. Merkes talks ; I was afraid he 
would discourage me too much, even before I began to 
teach.” 

“ You poor child !” said Mrs. General Likens, reining in 
her horses for a good talk. “ Pshaw ! I forgot they are 
behind us, and will be hurrying us on. You dear child !” 
she continued, whipping the horses up — and then she was 
silent again. “Does Mr. Wall — the uncle I mean — does 
he know any thing about it?” she asked at length, sorely 
troubled. 

“Ho, Madam, not yet,” said John; “I wanted to make 
all my plans first.” 

“ Oh, well, pshaw, that settles it !” said her companion, 
cheerfully. “Mr. Wall knows, and he would never let you 
do any thing of the sort.” 

“I intend to teach,” said John, in a low, firm voice, so 
that her companion looked at her with surprise. “ Be- 
sides,” she added in a lighter tone a moment afterwards, 
“I know that Mr. Wall will see — will understand — will 
approve my course. I’m sorry to have troubled you, Mrs. 
General Likens. Never mind ! I’ll try and find some other 
neighborhood. I spoke now because this was my first op- 
portunity.” 

“You don’t understand me at all, child,” said her com- 
panion, with a sweetness and gentleness of manner new to 


18 


The New Timothy. 


her. “I didn’t think Mr. Wall would let you come, be- 
cause he told me over and over again when he was here — 
I was telling you some of it — how he loved you, how they 
could not get along without you. But you may have good 
reasons, child ; there must be something in that sing’lar 
paleness of yours about the lips — makes you look like your 
father. Why I didn’t speak, too, was you don’t know any 
thing about teaching !” 

“ I do not know as much as I ought, but I’ve learned 
more, jierhaps, than you think for one of my age. Besides, 
I could study in advance of my scholars. I could try, at 
least — ” 

‘‘ Oh, I don’t mean that, child !” interrupted her friend, 
with almost sharpness in her tones. “You know fifty 
times as much as you’ll ever get any of the scholars out 
here up to learning : fifty times ? a thousand times as 
much ! What I mean is, you know nothing at all of the 
worry and bother of teaching. The sweetest preserves is 
sure to sour worst, and if teaching six months don’t sour 
you ! Jest try it. Why, child, your face ’ll get long, and 
your eyes all hollow, and you’ll fall away in flesh, and get 
scrimpsy in your dressing ; your voice ’ll get cracked with 
scolding, an’ your hands hard with slapping. Why, you 
poor child !” said Mrs. General Likens, surveying her 
mournfully, and reaching the climax of her worst anticipa- 
tions, “ sweet as you are to-day, school-teachin’ ’ll make an 
old maid of you as sure as you sit here !” 

“You are almost as bad as Mr. Merkes,” said John, 
manfully, but with a strong disposition to cry. 

“No, child; Mr. Merkes he imagines things, but I am 
tellin’ you only the hard facts,” was the consoling rej)ly. 
“Not that I ain’t proud to have you stay with us,” said 
the old lady, taking a new view of the case from that 
quarter, and brightening up. “The General and I’ll be 


The Likens Neighborhood. 


79 


more than delighted to have you. Yes,” added the old 
lady, her mind among the trunks under the staircase, with 
glee at the thought ; “ we’ll be glad if any thing keeps 
you wdth us, even if it's a school. Write ? Yes, I’ll write 
in a hurry. What’s the use seeing about the school part 
of it? That’s all nonsense. But you never mind. I’ll 
talk to the General as soon as we get into bed this very 
night. If he isn’t the leadin’ man in this neighborhood — • 
Likens neighborhood — I’d be thankful to know who is. 
School ? Yes. The General thinks the world of you al- 
ready, though he don’t say as much as he might. He 
don’t talk much, poor man ! though he can act powerfuL 
But here we are at the gate ! J ump out, child I” 


80 


The New Timothy. 


Chapter YIII. 

In which we return to Patriarchal Times, 

I^OW then, supper, Polly, and just as soon as you 
please : sun’s getting mighty low,” said the Gen- 
eral, as the whole party entered the front piazza, and with 
more of the tone of the master than Charles or John could 
have imagined him ever to assume. The request to his 
wife was, however, not in the least needed by her. Make 
haste, water ! stir yourself, pour ahead !” a miller might as 
reasonably have said to the foaming tide rushing through 
the mill sluice at his wheel. A good hundred yards before 
arriving at her front gate Mrs. General Likens had her 
bonnet-strings untied ; she took it off her head as she got 
out of the buggy; she unfastened the old-fashioned black 
breastpin wherewith her worsted shawl was secured about 
her throat, and had her bonnet securely wrapped up and 
away, till next Sabbath, in it before she reached the piazza; 
and as her foot crossed the threshold of the house every 
negro on the place was wide awake from the afternoon 
doze or chat, ready for the closing duties of the Sabbath. 

In twenty minutes after their arrival the family sat down 
to supper. In thirty minutes more they were up from 
table. Every servant moved with glad alacrity clearing 
away the supper-table, setting it again as fast as the table- 
ware came from the renovating hands of the mistress, keep- 
ing her seat thereat, with hot water and voluminous towel 
and incessant speech. In little more than an hour from 
the time of their return supper has been eaten, the table 


Some Ideas of General Likens. 


81 


spread again for an early breakfast next morning, covered 
over with clean and ample muslin. 

One hour more the servants have to eat their own sup- 
pers, to assure their swarming children that they will 
“ catch it soon’s meetin’s over ” if they make a disturbance 
of any kind therein, and to seat themselves, at the sound 
of the largest bell in the house, in the parlor. It is an am- 
ple room, but Charles and John find it quite full as they 
enter. All are standing along the benches they have 
brought in for the purpose as the white family enter the 
room. There is a general salutation, ‘‘ Massa, Missis !” on 
the part of the servants, responded to by a ‘‘Howdy, 
folks ?” from the General, and all are seated. 

As they had ridden home from church the General had 
said to his young companion, 

“You hardly knew what I meant when I said I’d rather 
you’d go somewhere else to stay all night. Fact is just 
this : I don’t know how it is, but ministers in our denomi- 
nation have, almost every one of them^ one great fault — 
they don’t mix among the people half enough. Hundreds 
of times ministers ’ve come to this neighborhood to preach. 
They always come to my house — that, of course — glad to 
have them ; but then they stay there all the time they are 
in the region ; go to church with me ; talk only with me be- 
tween preaching on the ground ; part with me to be off for 
my house again the moment day’s preaching is over ; stick 
to pie like cockle-burs ; can’t shake them off. Why, come 
to look at it, Y’m just the man in all this neighborhood 
they should care to have least to do with. Z’m an old 
member; my flint’s fixed forever. It’s the outsiders, the 
ones that ain’t professors at all, they should be most with. 
Take the hardest case in all this neighborhood — and there’s 
plenty, I tell you — them Meggar boys, for instance. Such 
a man throws saddle on his horse Sunday morning and 

6 


82 


The New Timothy. 


rides to church, just because ain’t any thing else — shootin’ 
for beef, or the like — goin’ on. Very little he hears — none 
at all he remembers. Siq^jDose now, after preachin’ he is 
introduced to the minister — and Zdo just that thing when- 
ever I get the chance — he is sure to say, ‘ Can’t you ride 
home with me and stay all night. Mister ?” He don’t ex- 
pect him to do it, but he wants to show he’s as much of a 
gentleman, in some things at least, as any man on the 
ground. Suppose the preacher says — and he’s sure to do 
it — ‘ Thank you, but I believe I am expected to go home 
with General Likens,’ though I expect him ; under 

the circumstances, don’t want him home with me at all. 
Well, there’s the first and the last of his influence over 
that man. Before night the man’s forgot such a man’s the 
preacher ever lived. 

“Now suppose minister says instead, ^ Thank you; I’ll 
take you at your offer,’ and goes with the man ? The man 
feels flattered to have his invitation accepted. Whatever 
he may be — cursing among his horses or his negroes, or at 
a shooting-match or on a hunt — all the time that minister’s 
with him he’s a perfect gentleman ! What a chance the 
minister has to do that man good, riding home with him 
through the woods ! At his house, too, what an oppor- 
tunity at the man’s wife and children ! At table the 
man says, ‘ Ask blessing, if you please,’ and God’s blessing 
is asked in that house for the first time. Wife remembers 
something, and there’s a tear in the corner of her eye as 
she pours out the coffee. Children stare and wonder. 
After supper the man says, or if he don’t the wife does, or 
if she don’t then the minister himself can say, ‘ Suppose we 
have a verse or two and a prayer before we lie down ?’ 
There isn’t a man in all this section would say no. What 
a chance to say something in explaining the passage he 
reads, then the hymn he sings, and the prayer he can put 


Shepherd and Flock. 


83 


up! Worship, too, next morning before he leaves. The 
man’ll propose it himself. Look at it. That man is flat- 
tered by the visit, will always have a liking for that min- 
ister, will go himself and take all his family to hear him 
preach next time, and listen then really to what he 
preaches. The children question their Pa and Ma* about 
the thing for months after. How much better spending 
the night that way than going home with me^ or any other 
professor, to talk over doctrines we’ve been over a thou- 
sand times, or about the nonsense of other denominations, 
wondering together how they can believe such stuff as 
they do ! Do you remember the first thing Christ did af- 
ter calling Matthew?” continued the worthy General, gath- 
ering the reins and whip in one hand, and turning round 
upon Charles, who filled the back seat. 

“ Accompanied him to his house to a feast, I believe,” 
said Charles. 

“ Exactly ; and when the Saviour called Zaccheus down 
from that tree ?” 

“ It was that Zaccheus might entertain him at his own 
house,” replied Charles. 

“ And both became disciples of Jesus,” said the General. 

“ That was the way the Master always did, if we only 
knew. Other denominations that don’t educate their 
preachers till they are millions of miles ofl* from common 
people, and with stomachs gone at that, are beating us all 
to pieces. Look at Mr. Merkes ! He’s too old a man to 
be talked to, but he’s like one of these bamboo vines that’s 
run round and round a sappling, and got set in the grain ; 
a yoke of oxen at both ends couldn’t pull it straight — only 
kills him! And, by-the-by, I want you to preach a ser- 
mon to the hands at the house to-night.” 

“ A sermon ?” exclaimed Mr. Wall, with alarm. “ Real 
ly, I was not aware — I will hardly have time to prepare — 


84 


The New Timothy. 


“ Never mind,” said his companion, good-humoredly, 
“ I’ll give you a text when the time comes. I think the 
sermon ’ll come when you try.” 

“ It was this audience the General meant,” said Charles 
to himself as he entered the parlor filled with “ the hands.” 
and the house-servants. 

Mrs. General Likens with John occupied chairs on the 
other side of the General, who sat in the door with the lit- 
tle square work-table of his wife before him, having there- 
on a candle, a hymn-book, and the large old Bible, Charles 
near by. The General looked at the clock. He wore an 
aspect of quiet dignity which his visitors had never before 
observed. Perfect silence reigned in th« room, every eye 
fastened upon him. To a well-known tune he began : 

“ How firm a foundation, ye saints of the Lord, — 

and before the first word was well out of his mouth the 
whole congregation had joined in. 

There w^ere a dozen stout men, black as sable itself, 
about the same number of women of all shades of color, 
from deepest jet up to light mulatto, a dozen or more chil- 
dren of all ages standing by their parents or sitting in their 
laps. Side by side — in the front of all, seated not on 
benches but in hide-bottom arm-chairs — were an aged 
couple, evidently husband and wife, the woman sitting erect 
as a column, but her gray-haired companion leaning upon 
a horn-headed staff — Simeon and Anna. Not one there 
who does not join in the singing with the wdiole soul, cer- 
tainly with the entire voice, rich, deep, and in excellent 
time ; for there is something of the tropical ripeness of his 
own clime in the very lungs of the negro. The General has 
a plain, strong voice of his own, but it can be heard only in 
the first syllable of each new^ verse. At the end of it all 
wait respectfully for “ old Massa ” to start the next ; but 


Uncle Simeon. 


85 


with the second syllable all join in unanimously, entire- 
ly drowning the voice of the General. There are a good 
many verses to the hymn, but they are all sung to the last 
line with a keen enjoyment which can not afford to spare 
the smallest fragment. In fact, after the last verse has been 
sung the General starts it again, and all instantly unite 
with hearty approval, fuller zest, and stronger melody, 
if possible, than before. 

• Then there is a complete hush for a minute. 

“ Uncle Simeon will lead us in prayer,” says the General, 
and the entire congregation are upon their knees. They 
must w"ait,however,a little,for Uncle Simeon is old, very old, 
and it takes him some time, even with his wife’s assistance, 
to get upon his knees. Then he begins in a low, trembling 
voice. The visitors regret that he was called upon — evident- 
ly he is too decrepit. It is only Uncle Simeon’s body they 
know as yet. Gradually his voice becomes clearer and 
firmer. He is actually speaking to God on the mercy-seat. 
All his religion has been drawn direct from the Bible, and it 
brims his heart — so his prayer is only his heart uttering it- 
self in Scripture language. He prays at length for ‘‘ Massa 
and Missis.” Well for them they had fallen into no grievous 
sins, they ^vould certainly have been part of Uncle Simeon’s 
confession of sin, somewhat specific in the case of himself 
and others present. From the mere habit of many years, 
and wdth the forgetfulness of age, he next prays for “ Mass’ 
James, dere only chile but he corrects himself the next 
instant, “ Forgive poor old servant. Lord; thousand thanks 
to dy name. Mass’ James dun prayed into glory ’ready !” 
Nor does he forget “Young Miss, now de stranger in dese 
gates dis Sabber day. Don’t know whether she is dy chile, 
Lord ; dou knowest ! Make her like Deb’ra, Lord, to fight 
against dy enemies ; like Marthy, to wait on thee con- 
stant ; like Mary, to sit on de ground at dy feet all her 


86 


The New Timothy. 


days !” And the heart of the young girl breathes a fer- 
vent Amen ! “ Young Massa here now, de Timothy now in 
dy presence, Lord,” is not omitted from Uncle Simeon’s 
supplications. All his entreaties for him reach their climax 
in the petition, “ Onny make him his uncle ober again an’ 
we’re satisfied !” 

The aged negro closes his prayer with a reference to 
heaven, as if he knelt upon its very threshold, beholding 
the glory within. He is assisted by his wife into his chair 
after all the rest are seated again — and Charles has learned 
more on the subject of prayer than from all the ma,ny 
treatises thereupon he has ever read. 

Half of “ How tedious and tasteless the hours ” is next 
sung, and with feeling more chastened and true. Tlien the 
General opens the Bible before him and says, 

‘‘ What was our subject last Sunday, folks ?” 

“ Prodigal Son,” is the prompt reply, apparently from 
every lip. Perhaps Uncle Simeon’s full allusion to this 
parable in his prayer had helped them to remember. 

“ What is our subject this evening ?” 

Not so many voices reply, but those who do answer 
eagerly, 

“ Miracle of blind Bartimeus !” 

‘‘ Yes,” says the General, and proceeds slowly to read 
the same, making, as he goes, very brief explanations. 

“ Any questions to ask, folks ?” he says. There is a si- 
lence of five minutes. The General understands and waits. 
Isham, the mulatto, has never failed yet to have at least 
one. The presence of the visitors is an impediment, but 
the question toiled after during all the previous week ar- 
rives at his tongue’s end at last, then comes out sudden 
and abrupt : 

“ Massa, did Christ cure all de blind people in de land ?” 

“ No, Isham.” 


A Colored Theologian. 


87 


“All de blind people he saio^l mean, Massa.” 

“ ^^"0, Isham.” 

“ But why^ Massa ?” Isham is the colored theologian of 
the place. “ Christ so kind, you know.” 

“ Tell him. Uncle Simeon,” says the General, quietly. 

“ How did de Lord come to cure Bartimeus, boy ?” asks 
Uncle Simeon, not raising his head from his horn-headed 
staff, nor looking around. 

“ Bartimeus heard ’twas Christ going by, an’ asked him 
to do it,” says Isham. 

“ Dat all ?” asks Uncle Simeon. 

“He asks him loud^'^ says Isham, after a pause. “He 
asks him spite of people trying to make him hush,” he con- 
tinues after another silence. “ He jest keeps on crying out, 
begging Jesus to do it ; won’t stop begging till Jesus does 
do it,” adds Isham after still further reflections. 

“’Member now anybody, Isham, dat come to de Saviour 
begging him dat Avay and wasn'^t cured ?” 

Isham meditates. “ tone’s I now ’members,” he says 
at length. 

“Ho,” says Uncle Simeon, quietly. “Ho poor creetei 
ever come to Jesus, den, asking help, asking in real earnest, 
no poor creeter ebber come to Jesus dat way den or ebber 
sence — bless de Lord ! — but Jesus always hear an’ grant. 
It’s onny dem dat won’t come, or onny half come, dat stays 
blind. Hothin’ more to say, Massa.” 

Isham subsides upon his bench, and Charles has heard 
an exhaustive explanation of God’s sovereignty in connec- 
tion with man’s free agency. 

A prayer from the General follows. Then the other 
half of the unfinished hymn. 

“ Mr. Wall will say a few words to you now, folks, and 
then pray with us,” says the General. 

The young minister has no need to drag his brain for 


88 


The New Timothy. 


the heads of some sermon already prepared. His warmed 
heart has kindled his mind, and he merely repeats and en- 
deavors to impress Uncle Simeon’s explanation upon the 
minds of all — he makes it not a bit clearer, however. Af- 
ter his prayer the General says : 

‘‘We’ve had a Miracle to-day; then it’s a Parable next 
Sunday. It will be the parable of the Rich Man and Laz- 
arus. Listen, folks,” and he reads the parable slowly and 
distinctly. “ Think over it, all of you, all this week, and 
remember what you’ve heard to day. Now, folks ! ‘ There 
is ’ ” — and all unite in the hymn — “ ‘ a land of pure de- 
light, ’’’and either they are the greatest hypocrites on 
earth, or they do really enjoy the singing. At its close 
the General only adds, “ God bless you, folks !” and the 
meeting is over. 

It is a necessity of their nature, however, that all pres- 
ent must shake hands with Massa and Missis and the young 
visitors before they can possibly leave the room. Charles 
sees and feels more genuine human heart in the glad eyes, 
and smiling teeth, and hearty exclamations, and warm 
grasps of the hand, than during a six months in the Semi- 
nary.. Last of all Uncle Simeon and his wife leave the 
room, their chairs carried out after them by some of their 
children present. “ John Anderson my Jo John,” Charles 
thinks, and asks and learns their names. 

“ Ah, yes, Simeon ! I had forgotten,” he says. “ But, 
Anna ? it’s a singular coincidence, you remember, in the 
Temple.” 

“ It only happens so,” says the General ; “ but it has had 
a happy influence on them ever since they’ve been married 
— and that’s more’n fifty years ago — twenty years before 
Polly and I, and more. And it’s Simeon’s second 'V^n'fe, 
too. We think he can not be far from a hundred.” 

“ With the exception of the color he reminds me of one 


Mrs. General Likens’s Poems. 


89 


of the old prophets,” said Mr. Wall, after they had settled 
again around the fire. 

“ Ha, now. General ! don’t you say one single word,” in- 
terjected the wife of the same, rising to her feet. “ I want 
to tell them about all that myself. Just a minit till I 
come back.” 

And the General smoked his pipe under this weird spell 
of silence, while his far more voluble half made her rounds 
for the night, seeing to it that the hen-house was actually 
locked, the smoke-house door not left ajar, no brands on 
the kitchen hearth, every turkey safe on its roost behind 
the bee-hives. 

“ It’s gettin’ late, an’ you must be tired preachin’, Mr. 
Wall; an’ we are all tired bearin’ preachin’. It’s as ex- 
haustin’ sometimes to hear as it is to preach. But that 
isn’t Uncle Simeon,” remarks Mrs. General Likens at last, 
as she resumes her seat and takes the long ends of her cap- 
strings in her ever-restless fingers, in lieu of the knittin g- 
needles interdicted by the day. “ I’ve been tryin’ to re- 
member the lines I wrote on that awful night we had with 
Uncle Simeon. If it wasn’t there’s a bushel or so of other 
poetry on top of it there in the trunk 1 would try an’ hunt 
it up this minit to read to you. It begins : 

“That time I never can forget, 

We all upon the porch were set, 

When Uncle Simeon came and stood — 

stood — stood,” added the poetess, meditatively ; “ for my 
life I can’t remember what I rhymed to stood. You see, 
it’s the rhyme brings the idea. Never mind ; I’ll find it 
first thing I do in the mornin’, and read it to you at break- 
fast. Never mind ! It was years before J ames died. 
How long was it. General ? Yes, whole years. It was on 
the porch it happened. I make a point not to say one 
word in my poetry is not true. One Saturday night it 


90 


The New Timothy. 


was ; weather was pleasant ; General sat as it were there, 
Janies he sat there, I sat here. I can’t say what we were 
talkin’ about. First thing you knew. Uncle Simeon was 
standin’ before us like a ghost. You see he goes to bed 
with the sun. Thought he was asleep, an’ he had been 
asleep sound, Anna she said ; stood right, say, tliere^ like a 
ghost. ‘I see him lyin’ cold an’ dead,’ he said. You see 
how he is bent ; well, he was as straight as an arrow, his 
eyes fixed like, staring straight before him. ‘ Cold an’ dead !’ 
‘ Cold an’ dead !’ he kept sayin’ it. Who it was he saw he 
didn’t say, an’ that was every word he did say. But we 
knew well enough who he meant when James died. Didn’t 
know any thin’ more about it all next mornin’ than you. 
Stood ? stood ? I can’t for my soul remember what rhymed 
to stood.” 

“ Time to go to bed,” says the General at this juncture, 
rising from his seat, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, and 
putting it carefully away in its especial niche on the man- 
tel. “ You may be almost sure, Polly, they’ve forgotten 
to put any clean towel in Mr. Wall’s room,” he is adding, 
when, like an apparition, they are suddenly aware that Un- 
cle Simeon is standing in the open door. lie has evident- 
ly just risen from his bed, for he is wrapped about with 
his white bed-covering, held before him together v/ith his 
left hand, while his right hand, in which he always carries 
the staff upon which he leans, is now stretched out before 
him with long, pointing finger. Behind him stands his 
wife, half awake and pulling at his clothes with many a 
remonstrance. But Uncle Simeon is either deranged, or is 
walking in his sleep. His eyes are wider open than they 
have been for years — are fastened in the directicn in which 
he points with eagerness. Perfectly erect, with white head 
and face illumined as from within, he stands as if regard- 
less of all there, pointing, gazing I 


Pkose. 


91 


“ Blood an’ biirnin’ ! Blood an’ burnin’ !” He says only 
that, repeating it over slowly and steadily — “ Blood an’ 
burnin’ !” But it thrills those present with nameless hor- 
ror ; not on account of the words, but the tone and man- 
ner of the speaker. It was as if he actually saw what he 
spoke of before him. 

For full five minutes all stand risen to their feet in won- 
der and dread, which they have not time to reason away. 
Long habit of command enables the General to speak and 
act first. 

“ Come, boy, that’ll do !” he says at last, in the sharp 
tones of cotton-patch and corn-field. The words seem to 
break the spell upon the old man ; his arm falters and falls, 
his eyes close, he shudders and shrinks as with cold, and it 
requires the assistance both of master and mistress, as well 
as that of his wife, to get him out of the room and back to 
his cabin near by. 

Full an hour of wondering and speculating upon the 
matter follows their return to the room — on the part, at 
least, of all but the General, who sits silent in his arm- 
chair, with head sunk upon his breast in grave reflection. 

“ That’ll do, Polly, that’ll do,” he says at last, rising. 
“ The less we talk it over the better. High time to be in 
bed. All we’ve got to do is ev’ry day that comes to do 
our duty’s well as we can. One thing, I’d good deal rath- 
er none of us said any thing about this to-night out o’ doors. 
Good-night, Mr. Wall. You must be right tired. Good- 
night, Miss John. Ho you won’t, Polly. I’ll see to it you 
won’t write any poetry on this ; not, at least, if I can help 
it.” 


92 


The New Timothy. 


Chapter IX. 


John and her Friend, 


HERE never lived the guest of General Likens who 



^ could say that he or she ever rose in the morning, how- 
ever early, and did not find Mrs. General Likens up before 
them. Uncle Simeon ought to know. He was an old man 
on the place that morning when she first arose as Mrs. 
General Likens. He can testify — only his evidence was 
not then legal — that he never rose but his mistress was 
awake before him; and Uncle Simeon woke early if ever 
man did. The General said that it was in order that she 
might begin talking, but he didn’t mean it. 

In the morning you had only to throw off the snowy 
sheets with the red-starred quilt on top, rise, and dress 
yourself, though the sun was far from up : it was no use 
trying to sleep. The bolster wrapped entirely around the 
head, so as to exclude the sound, has been tried repeated- 
ly, but in vain, by guests hungry for more slumber. The 
step of Mrs. General Likens around and through and over 
the entire house ; the voice of Mrs. General Likens coo- 
cheeing the poultry to their morning meal, ordering the 
servants in their duties ; the very fact that she was so 
active and entirely wide-awake while you were in bed, 
stirred you up from under the heaviest covering, and out 
of the profoundest disposition to sleep. And when you is- 
sued forth, whatever was the hour, there was Mrs. General 
Likens to entertain you. Her neat gray dress, her snowy 
cap, with the frills standing up around it so stiffly, and giv- 
ing such a wide-awake expression to her face ; her kindly 


Mks. General Likens at Home. 


93 


smile, her small, quick eyes, only less speaking than her 
lips ; the full life of the old lady to the very tips of her 
mittened fingers, to the very points of her slq^pers — all 
made her a picture beyond the swiftest brush to delineate 
to the life. If Landseer ever succeeded with an eagle on 
the wing, he might try it ; if Rosa Bonheur ever gave per- 
fect satisfaction in a winning horse just reaching the post, 
she might make the attempt. 

“ I have read of those wonderful ladies entertaining sa- 
loons full of company,” said John to herself that Monday 
morning, as she lay and listened. “ I never met with any 
of them in their silks and diamonds ; but I wonder if Mrs. 
General Likens is not a Madame Sevigne or a Madame 
Genlis in the woods — a sort of Mademoiselle Recamier in 
the rough, a Madame de Stael in the ore. Just imagine a 
splendid room, all grand with chandeliers, and paintings, 
and gorgeous ladies, and glittering generals ; and then 
Mrs. General Likens, what she is by birth, only educated 
to it all, and dressed as richly as the best of them, ani- 
mated by admiration and universal applause for every 
word she uttered : she would surpass the most wonderful 
of them all,” continued John to herself, roused fairly out 
of her doze and her bed by the idea. 

But John managed to forget her, too, when at last she 
sat down, as was her wont, with her Bible — her father’s 
last gift. “ Yes,” said she to herself, as she finished the 
chapter and replaced the ribbon, “ here is indeed the sub- 
stance of one’s experience, as Mrs. General Likens says, the 
grounds, and food, and strength of piety. Something ex- 
actly to suit one’s own case, to cast some entirely new and 
encouraging light on it, in every chapter I read.” 

And she knelt softly beside her chair in prayer, anima- 
ted and strengthened by and based upon the verses she 
has just read. 


94 


The New Timothy. 


Do you believe God on his throne in heaven bends more 
attentively, more lovingly, over John the beloved disciple 
worshipping Him there, than He does over this John wor- 
shipping Him on earth ? If we dared ascribe degrees to 
God, He has a more active care for this fair child of his, 
yet among the brambles of the way, than for such as have 
safely entered their Father’s house, and are set down there 
in eternal peace. It was with her as the child that clam- 
bered into his arms for a blessing when He sat by the way- 
side in journeying to and from Jerusalem — with a natural 
gladness she nestled herself as in his arms, and, with her 
lips to his ear, whispered things she breathed to no other 
being — sins, sorrows, fears, requests — her whole heart. 
And never did she draw nearer to her Friend than now, 
because never before had she so needed his aid. Girls of 
her age must have a confidante; some girls like them- 
selves, to whom they can talk, and with whom they can 
have many a delicious laugh and more delicious cry ; or to 
whom, wdien separated, they can write pages upon pages, 
crossed and recrossed. If no such confidante is to be had, 
a journal is the resource — the heart is written out on its 
pages. 

But John had neither journal nor confidante. From 
birth she had been trained to make Jesus her friend, com- 
panion, confidant, instead. The habit grew with her growth. 
When a mere child, she had hastened to her little room 
with the fragments of “ Grandma,” her dearly-beloved doll, 
and prayed for another, and it had been very much so 
ever since. Not more fully did she believe in the exist- 
ence of Mr. Wall, the uncle, than she did in that of Jesus, 
and she loved and lived with this last Friend with an in- 
timacy beyond comparison closer and w^armer. Like a 
child towards her Saviour, even in fits of passion and alien- 
ation from Him, then returning to him repentant, clinging 


John’s Theology. 


95 


‘about his neck with sobs, and confessions, and promises of 
amendment. Far from perfect in any respect, such faith 
as she had was no more a merit of hers than the beating 
of her heart: guilty, and she well knew it, if she had less. 

“ I do w^onder what I tcoiild be without Him,” slie said 
to herself, almost aloud, as she sat for a moment, after ris- 
ing from her knees. “ I can not imagine, I suppose, be- 
cause it has always been so with me; a sort of feather 
tossed about by whatever breeze happens to blow — a straw 
on the current of things !” 

Ah, lily, the same soft force that bends your white pe- 
tals so modestly towards the earth binds the ponderous sun 
in its orbit ; the sweet influence which holds you what you 
are, held Saul from being, till death and so on forever, a 
blasphemous and blood-stained bully and ruffian. That 
grasp, softer than that of a babe yet strong as Jehovah, 
which holds you holds General Likens, smoking his morn- 
ing pipe on the front piazza, from being a mere hornless, 
human ox, sordid and dumb — holds his wife from being a 
shrew, before whom Billingsgate would have fled appalled 
— holds Charles Wall from being a libertine and a liar — 
holds Mr. Merkes from hanging himself 

But the bell rings for prayers, and after prayers breakfast 


96 


The New Timothy. 


Chapter X. 

In which Mrs. General Likens expresses herself. 

'VT^OU must eat a good, hearty, traveller’s breakfast, 
Miss John, for we have a good day’s drive before 
us,” says Charles, setting, as every preacher should, an ex- 
ample of his injunctions. 

‘‘Not ex-actly!” says the General, at the head of the 
table. 

The young lady’s eating or the journey? exclaim both 
visitors with their eyes. 

“No journey for you to-day,” the General explains. 

“ Oh, thank you !” says Charles. “ But we are compelled 
to leave. I must be at home to-night.” 

“ It is astonishing,” the General soliloquizes aloud, paus- 
ing with a sparerib in his hand to do it, “ how ministers do 
talk of home. It’s always ‘Thank you, but I must get 
home!’ They live in their home like a terrapin in his 
shell, poke out the head half an inch, and then jerk it back 
again ! They won’t mix with the people, won’t live out in 
the world. When they do go among folks it’s like a man 
bathing of a cold day ; ‘ if I must, I must !’ Souse ! he goes 
into the water, then out again, and off in double-quick 
time. No wonder the people, except exactly their own 
church, stand off from them as far’s they do. Every time 
they preach only the same set of people, the old stand-bys 
an’ their children the year round. 

“Was that the way the Saviour did, I want to know?” 
continued the General, almost angrily. “ No, he was right 


General Likens’s Ideas. 


97 


among people. Wise men from the East an’ a crowd of 
shepherds come in to see, an’ the like, from his very birth. 
Same all the time there at Nazareth, I’ll warrant. At that 
wedding in Cana ; talking with the woman at the well ; 
staying with Martha, Mary, and Lazarus ; eatin’ and drink- 
in’ with publicans and sinners; riding into Jerusalem with 
a crowd around ; out on that mountain teaching, the peo- 
ple swarming close about him by thousands like bees ! 
Now and then he was alone by himself in the desert, or up 
the mountain at night, when every body was asleep, at 
prayer ; but, as a general rule, all his time from dawn till 
dark he lived right in the thick of the people. And most 
of our ministers ! — look at them ! The Master says, ‘ Go 
out! Go out quickly into the streets an’ lanes of the city 
after the poor, maimed, halt, blind !’ More than that : 
‘ Go outside the city, into the highways an’ hedges, an’ com- 
pel them to come in.’ And more than that : ‘ Go out into 
all the world, and preach the gospel to ev’ry creature.’ 
And yet look at most of our ministers — never really con- 
tented except by the fire in their study — door shut, book 
in hand, pipe perhaps in mouth, dyspepsy, most like, in 
stomach ! Of course,” added the General, after a pause, 
“ some o’ their time must be spent in prayer and study — 
close an’ hard at that — but the main part ought to be out 
o’ doors in the very centre of the people — at least seems so 
to me !” And the General resumed his sparerib, while his 
wife sat amazed at his unusual flow of speech. 

“ General Likens,” says John, with merry eyes, “ I was 
telling Mr. Wall, as Ave came from Hoppleton, that I would 
do great things for Theological Seminaries when I get rich ; 
and one thing will be to have you appointed to the Profes- 
sorship of Human Nature.” 

Thank you. Miss ; but if they could only get the right 
man — it wouldn’t be from among the ministers, I’m afraid, 

7 


98 


The New Timothy. 


— next to the man that expounded Scripture to them he 
would be the teaclier most needed. The Bible first, human 
nature next ! I’ve seen a heap of ministers in my day com- 
ing fresh from the Seminary like goslings from the shell. 
I tell you it takes five years of good rubbing with the ac- 
tual world to get their kinks and queerities out o’ them. 
Some stay kinky all their lives !” 

“ And a part of this rubbing I am getting just at this 
moment,” says Charles, good-humoredly, wincing a little. 
“ And I will be glad to have it,” he adds, cordially. 

“ ‘ Keep Charles as long as you please, but send back 
John — we can’t live without her,’ ” added the General, re- 
flectively, “ was the last words your uncle said as I rode 
off I remember it on account of that young Burleson.” 

“ Young Burleson ?” exclaimed Charles, looking up, while 
John did the exact reverse. 

“ Edward Burleson,” continued the General, after drain- 
ing his cup of cofiee and carefully buttering a third biscuit 
while it was being refilled. 

“ You see, he drove up in a buggy,” continued the Gen- 
eral at last, “ while your uncle and I was talking. Hand- 
some fellow, bran-new buggy, splendid horse. ‘ Do I un- 
derstand you, Mr. Wall, that Miss John is absent ?’ he ask- 
ed, looking blank as you please. Wes, General,’ says 
your uncle to me, ‘ you’re the man to do it. Rub him as 
much as you can ; it will do him good ;’ and I rode off to 
catch up with you, and left them talking. You see, I had 
been in Hoppleton trading — do all our trading there — do 
it always.” 

‘Exactly, entirely, jest so!” said Mrs. General Likens, 
who had been painfully silent, smiling over the rims of her 
spectacles at John, whose eye^ were in her plate. “Ex- 
cellent match ; rich as cream, child. If he don’t belong to 
the church, his father does. Ah, ha !” continued Mrs. Gen- 


Brown Bob Long. 


99 


era! Likens, nodding to herself at her own information, un- 
derstandingly and approvingly. “ Exactly, yes !” 

“ And besides,” continued the General, plodding along 
in his own path, “ you remember a man sat right before 
you at church? — dark complected, straight as a ramrod, 
tall, long black hair, plain clothes ?” 

“ And wdio listened so to every word I uttered ?” said 
Charles, to whom the question was addressed. “ Yes, I re- 
member him perfectly. I do not think he stirred an inch 
or turned his eyes aside an instant during the sermon — and 
the same at the second service.” 

“ Learned that lying behind brush waiting hours to get 
a shot at wdld turkeys !” interjected Mrs. General Likens. 

“Remember I introduced him to you just as we left,” 
said the General. “ Remember he shook hands with you ! 
I was watching an’ laughing wdiile I was untying the 
horses.” 

“But, General,” said Charles, “he really ought to be 
told by some one ; he actually hurt my hand, he gave it 
such a squeeze. I felt it for twenty minutes afterwards as 
we rode along.” 

“Brown Bob Long!” ejaculated Mrs. General Likens. 
“ I tell you he never got my hand in his but once — that 
day at the church, you remember. General. I do declare 
that man was the happiest human I ever saw in my life ; 
the day he experienced religion, I mean. There was some- 
thing deep, something solemn, kind of awful, in that man’s 
joy that day. And he didn’t say any thing — didn’t talk 
at all; that astonished me most; only was so powerful 
happy. Browm Bob Long ! I wouldn’t have touched that 
man with a forty-foot pole up to that meetin’. ’Twas when 
your uncle was here, Mr. Wall ; that same blessed meetin’ 
James was converted. You see, I had heard — think ’twas 
Araminta Allen told me — one you saw at the spring with 


100 


The New Timothy. 


that brush, child — and I looked round in meeting, and sure 
enough a blind man could see it in his face. Brown Bob 
Long! I wouldn’t have taken that hand of his with the 
kitchen tongs before ; but soon as meetin’ was over, I 
went right straight up to him. My eyes was running with 
tears, I was so glad on account of James. But when he 
took my hand in his, I tell you the tears came faster. 
You see he squeezed so ! Had serious notion I’d have to 
poultice my hand. But I knew just what he needed — a 
good talk on the duties before him ; and I did talk to him 
well. First to last he never said a word, only sat still as 
a stone, listenin’ to me, with those coal-black eyes of his. 
I tell you that man’s joy was awful to see !” 

“But I wanted to tell Mr. Wall — ” endeavored the 
General. 

“ One moment. General,” said his wife. “ Solemn as I 
was, I couldn’t help watching to see that man shake hands 
with your uncle, Mr. Wall; if he squeezed mine so, he’ll 
bring the blood with I says to myself. Well, when 
your uncle saw him coming — I do think he is the wisest 
man, in little things as well as great, I ever knew — when 
he saw him coming, he jest gave him both of his hands 
clasped like together. See ? He couldn’t squeeze so hard 
that way, and it was jest as cordial — more so ! Talk of 
Saul of Tarsus !” continued Mrs. General Likens, with en- 
ergy. “ If ever a gambling, horse-racing, cursing, despe- 
rate, outrageous sinner was struck down on his way to Da- 
mascus, he’s the man. ‘ I’ll try ; but God must do it all 
in me !’ them were his ver}^ words to your uncle. I 
thought it a bad sign he had so little to say; but he’s 
held out so far, any way.” 

“ What I wanted to say,” said the patient General, “ was 
only this : He told me yesterday. Brown Bob, not to let 
you go till he came. He wants you to help him about 


Theological Questions. 


101 


something. Besides, he has something he wants to send 
to your uncle by you.” 

“ Reminds me !” interrupted his wife. “ Don’t let me 
forget, child. I’ve fixed up a basket for you when you go. 
I was afraid I would forget, and fixed it up early this 
morning. I’ve put it on the fire-board there, all ready. 
Don’t let me forget it I Talking of your uncle, Mr. Wall, 
reminds me of Hoppleton. Take off the things, MolL 
Keep your seat, child. Yes, we’ll excuse you gentlemen 
out on the piazza ; General always smokes after breakfast 
— nigh all the time, for that matter. I wanted to ask you 
something about people there. You see, we lived a while 
in Hoppleton when we first moved out, till we could find a 
farm to suit; boarded at Moody’s some months. And 
how’s he doin’ ? 

“And Josiah Evers, too! Ah, yes; taught school here 
once. ‘ And so you actually believe there is such a place 
as hell — actually believe it !’ he said to me after supper one 
Sunday night, smiling pityingly like. You see, Mr. Merkes 
had been preaching on the subject. ‘Certainly I do,’ says 
I; ‘you don’t think I doubt what the Bible says?’ — ‘Cer- 
tain it’s in the Bible ?’ he said, smiling gently, as if he was 
talking with a willful child. I up and read him some of 
the passages in Scripture — you know them all — and Mr. 
Merkes’s sermon had freshened me up in them. I felt real 
awful as I read them one after another as fast as I could 
hunt them up. All the time Josiah Evers sat leanin’ back 
in his chair, hands together, turning one thumb over the 
other, smiling all the time, amused like, patiently like, as if 
I was tryin’ to prove the moon was made of green cheese. 
He didn’t interrupt me once — kept on smilin’ so superior. 
‘ What have you to say to all them ?’ I said, when I had 
finished. ‘ Nothing at all. Madam,’ says he. ‘ Nothing at 
all ! and yet deny the plain doctrine ?’ ‘Ah, Madam 1’ says 


102 


The New Timothy. 


lie, heavin’ a gentle sigh, a kind of patient melancholy on 
his face, ‘ it would take too long to explain to you.’ ‘ But 
you can try,’ says I ; ‘ I ain’t altogether a fool, though my 
opportunities have been small.’ ‘Well,’ says he, ‘ there are 
a great many learned men in the world. Whole universi- 
ties of them in Germany and at the North, men of profound 
learning, people who know infinitely more than any body 
in these parts, of course. These men,’ says he, ‘ have thor- 
oughly investigated the doctrine of a hell, an’ find it all a 
mistake. Strange,’ he went on saying to himself ; ‘ same 
notion has prevailed in every nation; singular delusion. 
It’s well enough to preach it to a certain class,’ he went 
on to say ; ‘ to your unfortunate negroes, Madam, for in- 
stance — it serves as a restraint upon the ignorant; only 
don’t expect intelligent people to believe it,’ he says, 
smiling. 

“ But we were called off just then to our negro meet- 
ing. ‘ Uncle Simeon,’ says I, near the close, ‘ do you be- 
lieve in a hell ?’ ‘ Yes, Missis,’ says he, ‘ an’ in a heaven, 

too, bless de Lord !’ ‘ But, Uncle Simeon,’ says I, ‘ some 

people say they don’t believe there’s any such place as 
hell.’ ‘ They lie. Missis !’ says he, not raising his head 
from that stick of his. ‘ But how must we prove it to 
them ?’ says I. ‘No use tryin’ to prove it to them. Missis,’ 
says Uncle Simeon ; ‘ dey know it already in dere hearts 
vndout de Bible ; a thousan’ times over an’ over again in 
de Bible. No man can help believe it. Missis. If he say 
he don’t he lies, an’ he knows it — no use foolin’ with 
sitch !’ And that was all Uncle Simeon had to say. Jo- 
siah Evers he turned as red as his own hair, but went back 
to smiling again. 

“ Ah, well, child, didn’t we have it, we two, that night ! 
Believe me, that man didn’t believe in a word in the Bible. 
‘ I accept,’ says he, ‘ only those parts of the Bible my rea- 


Rationalism. 


103 


son, my intellect, approves. I subject every thing else in 
the world,’ says he, ‘to my own judgment, and I do the 
same by the Bible.’ And so on, for half an hour, that man 
talked. ‘ But you mistake in other things, why not in 
this ?’ I said to him, over and over again. ‘ True, Mad- 
am,’ he says, ‘ the understanding may err ; I may have oc- 
casionally erred myself, but the heart never mistakes. 
What the heart says is always so. What I feel to be true 
is invariably true. We always go by what we feeV ‘ God 
forbid 1 should !’ says I. 

“Then it flashed upon me — you see, it was soon after 
his affair with Araminta Allen — ‘ The heart is a safe and 
infallible guide, is it ?’ says I ; ‘we may always travel 
where our feelings lead us, safe and sure ?’ ‘ Yes, Ma’am,’ 

says he ; ‘ our intuitions never mislead.’ ‘ How, then, did 
it happen so about Araminta ?’ I asked him, plump ! 
Catch him ? not exactly ! Quick as a flash he says, ‘ The 
heart had nothing to do with that whatever. Ma’am. 
Love her, and that snuff-stick ’tween her lips ? Faugh !’ 
‘ IS'o, it was not her^ it was her negroes you wanted,’ says 
I, finishing his remark for him ; ‘ I knew it.’ To think 
that man should acknowledge that rather than give up his 
argument !” 

But John endeavors to turn the torrent of talk by some 
question in regard to the General. 

“ Oh, as to the General,” Mrs. General Likens makes an- 
swer, pouring her speech instantly that way, “ he is an 
amazin’ close observer, as well as a man of the strongest 
sort of sense. No wonder; he has all his time for it; he 
don’t have to work now for a living. We’ve enough and 
to spare, thank the Lord ! He don’t care to speculate or 
try to get richer. Then I carry all the little matters on 
the place smoothly on for him ; he has only field matters 
to look after. He hasn’t any children, now James is gone. 


104 


The New Timothy. 


to worry about — great big boys to see after, or girls 
growin’ up dressin’ and followed up by their beaux. Nor 
any grandchildren, even, to climb about his knees, and pull 
his hair, and their hands in, his pockets — nothing to 
disturb him in the world. Besides, he has lived in the 
thick of people all his life. He’s such an excellent listen- 
er, you see ; it’s amazin’ how much he has heard from me, 
let alone other people, in the thirty years we’ve been 
married. He takes vast deal more interest in religious 
matters, since that blessed meeting especially, than in any 
thin’ else. So he sets out there on the piazza, or by the 
fire, and reads his Bible and his religious newspaper, and 
smokes and thinks nigh all the time. Look here, child,” 
went on Mrs. General Likens, as a sudden thought smote 
her; “was it our Mr. Merkes urged young Mr. Wall to 
come out here on this visit and preach for him ?” 

“No, Madam,” said John, smiling as she spoke, “Mr. 
Wall asked Mr. Merkes when he was last at our house, to 
ask his nephew to come. He afterwards told his nephew 
he had a special reason for doing so.” 

“Just as I thought!” exclaimed her companion, tri- 
umphantly. “ I never knew Mr. Merkes ask a minister to 
come and preach for him in my life, except they were ac- 
tually on. the ground, you know. One day Mr. Merkes 
was here to see us. I saw him long before he got to the 
front gate, an’ saw he looked bluer than usual, even. Says 
T, ‘ General ’ — the General was sitting in his chair smoking 
— ‘ General, I’m goin’ to try an experiment with Mr. 
Merkes.’ You see, child, I was full of fun when I was a 
girl, dressin’ up, dancin’ all night when I had a chance, 
leading my beaux a time of it, a regular torn-down piece ; 
the standing wonder to me is how I ever married such a 
man as the General there, so grave and solid. ‘ Well,’ the 
General says, ‘ be perfectly respectful, Polly. Remember 


Mk. Merkes Cheered Up. 


105 


he is our pastor, whom we are bound to love and revere.’ 
‘Xever fear,’ says I; ‘I’ve no disposition to do otherwise.’ 
Mr. Merkes came in ; we gave him hearty welcome. 
There he sat and talked for half an hour. I never saw him 
so low down in my life ; nothing could cheer him. At 
last, ‘ Mr. Merkes,’ said I, ‘ how did you happen to have 
Mr. Jones preach for you Sunday before last? He’s a 
good man — means well, I dare say ; but he stammers so 
when he gets warmed to his sermon it’s painful to hear 
him.’ An’ so I went on — and it was nothing but the 
truth about Mr. Jones, though I never allow myself to talk 
that way of ministers. Jest as I thought. The moment 
I began to run Mr. Jones down as a preacher Mr. Merkes 
began to brighten up. As I went on he got more and 
more cheerful, till at last he actually smiled. You see I 
might have tried running down that Ishmael Spang and 
his preaching — easy thing to do, goodness knows ; or I 
might have got on the doctrines of other denominations — 
he used to be quite cheery hearing them talked against, 
you understand ; only they was worn out by constant 
use. Mr. Merkes he shook his head gently, said Mr. Jones 
had the best intentions in the world ; he did hesitate and 
stammer very sadly, too — got quite cheerful in fact. I’ve 
noticed Mr. Merkes close, years now ; have often watched 
him rise and fall, in one half hour, like a feather, a dozen 
times. Tell him of some rich man — his money, and house, 
and things — and down he goes. Tell him about some- 
body’s crop failing, or negroes dying, or wheat rusting, 
and up he goes. But it’s about churches and ministers 
he’s most sensitive, specially in his own denomination. I 
never saw him so peart in my life as he was when poor 
Mr. Jones had his trouble — you’ve heard about it — with 
his church. All the time Mr. Merkes was moaning, and 
deploring, and shaking his head, and in wonderful spirits, 


lOG 


The New Timothy. 


for him. That Mr. Wall is the only preacher he can hear 
to hear praised, and he winces a good deal at that ; would 
rather that people should talk of something else. But 
dear me, child, I am ashamed of myself to he speaking so 
of our minister. He’s a most an exc’lent man, would rath- 
er die at the stake than not, if duty called ; only he’s had 
so much trouble, you see.” 

And Mrs. General Likens paused, not because she was 
out of breath — that she never had been in her life, — but 
because she had now washed up the breakfast things. 

“ I see Brown Bob Long just lighting from that horse 
of his at the front gate, child,” said she, rising. “ Suppose 
we look around a little. I don’t want to see him squeeze 
your hands so — it’s awful !” 

“ But did you mention to the General about what we 
were speaking of?” asked John, as they went out by the 
back-door, dreading lest there should be no other interval 
of silence before she left. 

“First thing when we’d got to bed las’ night,” was the 
reply. “The General hates it mightily — your trying to 
teach school, I mean ; but we’ll both be proud to have 
you stay with us. He’ll see all about it and write to you 
as soon as he can. See that rooster? He always puts 
me in mind — so round and slow and showy like — of that 
Colonel Mills. There isn’t one of my hens but puts me in 
mind of somebody I know. See that short-legged pullet ? 
— always ’minds me of a little freckled girl running round 
in a long wolsey frock. Colonel Mills — ah yes ! I’ve got 
a yellow cow, our best milker ; she’s the living image of 
Mrs. Colonel Mills. You see, we boarded in Hoppleton 
before we bought this place — know every body there. 
And their son David, poor fellow ! could explain it all to 
you, child, how it happened, if you was a married woman. 
And there’s that Louisiana too — bouncing piece she is ! 


Prophetic. 


107 


She can’t talk, poor thing ! but she’s good to look at, isn’t 
she ? I tell you what !” said Mrs. General Likens, pausing 
as she unlocked the hen-house door, and turning upon her 
companion with prophecy in her face and tones. “That 
girl is the very wife, exactly, for young Mr. Wall.” 


108 


The New Timothy. 


Chapter XL 

Mr. Robert Long arrives upon Bohasheela. 

ERFECTLY aware, dear reader, that you are wincing 



a little under Mrs. General Likens — becoming even 
desperate to break out of the meshes of her incessant spin- 
ning — yet how could you have otherwise learned to know 
that estimable lady as her other visitors do ? 

We alike hail, however, the arrival at this juncture of 
Brown Bob Long, and hasten upon the front piazza to 
greet him, leaving John to her fate. 

Not from the sands of Arabia had Brown Bob Long ob- 
tained his horse — a shaggy white pony — the abundant 
hair of his tail and mane thickly clotted with cockle-burs. 
Upon his right shoulder is branded a mystic hieroglyphic, 
twelve inches across, marking his ownership, the result of a 
week’s designing by Mr. Long with the end of his ramrod, 
on the sand in front of his cabin. The ticks have damaged 
his left ear, and it is doubled down, giving him an expres- 
sion of being in joke all the time. Mr. Bob Long is very 
tall — so much so that on his very small steed his feet reach 
the ground almost, leaving the impression upon your mind 
as he rides up that the pony is so slight a part of Mr. 
Long’s travelling equipage as to be better dispensed with 
than not. As he alights you observe that his is only the 
naked tree or wooden frame of a saddle, without any cov- 
ering or trimming whatever, and that rawhide enters large- 
ly into the construction of his bridle. The value of the 
whole outfit is accumulated in the huge wooden stirrups. 


Enter Robert Long. 


109 


with broad leathers, extending so near the earth that, 
when tied to a tree at a little distance, the pony exhibits 
the phenomenon of an animal having apparently three 
legs on a side. 

According to the invariable custom of the country, Mr. 
Long rides up to the front fence and halts, without the 
least intimation that he intends to get oif. General Li- 
kens rises and calls to him to “ ’Light !” standing on the 
front step of the piazza. Mr. Long retains his seat, and 
the General walks out to the fence, pipe in mouth, and re- 
peats the request: all according to the ritual of that re- 
gion. Ah, thank you,” says Mr. Long, and drawing one 
foot out of the stirrup, seats himself more comfortably 
sideways in the saddle for a talk. General Likens is fa- 
miliar with established usage, and, leaning against the 
fence, the topics of health on both sides ; then the state of 
the weather, past, present, and to come; then the crops 
past, the prospect of crops to come. Then, in due order, 
the General again says, “ ’Light, won’t you ?” Mr. Long 
replies, with some hesitation, “ Ah, thank you ; I’ll come in 
an’ get a gourd of water.” A long rifle in his hand, some 
eighty feet of rope hanging in a coil upon the horn of his 
saddle, a tangle of powder-horn and shot-pouches about 
his breast, and a spur on each heel considerably larger 
than a dollar, make the getting off rather a labor than oth- 
erwise, especially as the temperament of Bobasheela, the 
pony, renders his standing still for an instant an impossi- 
bility. 

The young minister is undecided a moment as they ap- 
proach the piazza ; but he remembers Cranmer at the 
stake, and cheerfully holds out his right hand to martyr- 
dom. The squeeze wherewith it is grasped and held pro- 
duces in the face of the sufferer a singular conflict of 
serious pain therefrom with that real pleasure wherewith 


110 


The New Timothy. 


one instinctively greets a thorough, healthy, wholesome 
human being. Mr. Long is manifestly glad to see him, 
and shows it. Mr. Long prefers keeping upon his head 
his exceedingly slouched wool hat, but seats himself on a 
hide-bottomed chair, tilts it back against a pillar of the 
piazza, and then goes through the established topics in 
their established order with Mr. Wall. That gentleman 
and all his uncle’s family are well. Mr. Long has brouglit 
all his family with him in his saddle, as he informs the 
young minister, and, yes, he is well. The weather has been, 
is now, promises to continue, pleasant; both are agreed 
upon that point. Mr. Wall pleads ignorance of the crops 
about Hoppleton — is, in fact, profoundly indifferent upon 
the subject, and listens to Mr. Long’s opinions in the mat- 
ter without being at all able to restate those opinions when 
he has finished. The existence of, or necessity for, crops 
has never as yet fairly entered his mind. Crops were not 
at all a subject of thought in the Seminary. 

The established topics being exhausted in their due or- 
der, Mr. Long produces a knife eight inches in length from 
his right breeches-pocket, a bar of tobacco from the left, 
and supplies himself with an immensely large quid, pre- 
viously offering the same to his friend. He then works 
the hind legs of his chair forward that it may tilt in a 
larger angle with the pillar, settles himself in it, and con- 
siders himself at home. Mr. Wall is anxious to be cordial 
and sociable, and is dragging his mind for something to 
say. General Likens has long ago surrendered the busi- 
ness of entertaining and drawing out his guests to his wife, 
but she is performing that duty just now upon a fairer 
visitor in the back premises. 

“Well, an’ what’s the good word with you?” their host 
therefore asks at last, this being the next question in order 
according to the rubric of society in that section. 


Robert’s Opinions. 


Ill 


“Nothin’, well, nothin’,” is the reply. “I’m told Bill 
Meggar’s ribs I bruk ’er gettin’ well. He vaoidd hev it, 
you know !” added Mr. Long, appealingly. “ Devel help- 
ing them, they might have coaxed me into takin’ that 
Avhisky ; that is, if the good Lord had forsaken me — pre- 
haps. But as to making me drink, pourin’ it down, you see, 
it ain’t to be did !” and Mr. Long is again silent. 

“ Started early ?” tries the General again. 

“ Not very ; almost daybreak — had only the fifteen miles 
to ride,” is the reply. 

“Don’t see that fat buck,” says the General. 

“Not shot yet,” replies Mr. Long, carelessly. “’Fraid 
it might spile before he got home ; not do it till the last 
moment.” 

“ Indians would say you’d rubbed end of your rifle with 
med’cine ; deer seem to swarm so about it,” says the Gen- 
eral. 

“ Don’t find much honey there to speak of,” says Mr. 
Long, taking up his rifle instinctively from the baluster 
against which he has leaned it, and laying it across his 
knees with a caressing motion. 

“ Remember what Jacob said to his father the day he 
brought the old man that kid-meat he had fixed up for 
ven’son?” asks the General, with his pipe-stem between his 
teeth. 

“ ‘ The Lord thy God brought it me,’ ” says Mr. Long, 
promptly, as if he had just laid the Bible aside from read- 
ing that passage. “ But then, you know, he lied,” adds 
Mr. Long. The General nods, reflectively. 

“ I wouldn’t dare to say any thing of that sort about my 
hunting,” says the hunter, in a lower voice, and with down- 
cast eyes. “ Only I do know one thing, my shootin’ ’ll do 
better to tie to than it did before, you know, and by a long 
sight.” 


112 


The New Timothy. 


The General considers this statement as he smokes. 

“ Never a single drop, say, since then ?” he asks at last, 
regarding his swarthy guest with new interest — with an 
anxious curiosity even. 

The hunter shakes his head with a smile. 

“ Nor a piece of pasteboard, say ? Not once 

Another shake of the head in negation. 

“ Nor a quarter race ?” 

Another shake still more decided. 

‘‘How about that swearing? nary oath?” 

Mr. Long’s smile vanishes, leaving a troubled look. 

“ No, General, but mighty nigh oust, I tell you,” he says. 
“ It was Bobasheela yonder ; he laid down with me in 
Boggy Creek, one cold mornin’ I was after a deer — it fair- 
ly started a cuss before I knew it, but it didn’t reach my 
mouth. No, sir!” 

The General takes his pipe from his mouth, and looks at 
his visitor yet more anxiously as he asks, “ Nor — nothin’ 
else ?” 

Mr. Long understands the delicate question perfectly. 
With a frank smile over the whole of his face he shakes 
his head in the negative decidedly, and the General re- 
sumes his pipe with profound satisfaction. “ You will ex- 
cuse my askin’?” he says after further consideration. 

“ Certainly, an’ more than welcome,” replies the hunter 
promptly, and with a glad face. 

Mr. Wall is desirous to break the silence that ensues. 
His field of thought for the last few years yields him not, 
however, a single grain for the occasion. 

“Religion is a most an excellent thing,” the General an- 
nounces, therefore, after further reflection along the same 
line. “ To guide a man, say,” he explains. 

“ Yes, General,” is the reply ; “ but specially to hold in 
a man. It’s its holdivb-in power strikes me most. It’s 


Exegetical. 


113 


wonderful !’^ says the hunter, with emphasis. “ There’s 
no gettin’ round the fact ; it must be — God !” 

Mr. Long lets his chair down upon its four legs that he 
may search to better advantage a breast-pocket under his 
buckskin hunting-shirt. “ It’s an astonishin’ passage,” he 
says as he searches. “ ‘ Kept by the power of God through 
faith unto salvation’ — kept! that’s what I look it — its 
(Ppovpiijj, you rec’lect,” he adds, turning on Mr. Wall, as he 
draws a little book from his bosom and searches it for the 
place. 

“ Frowreo !” exclaims that individual, bewildered. 

“ That’s the verb, you know ; it’s (ppovpovfxevovg in the 
passage. Kow what I want to know is this,” adds the 
hunter: “ does the Greek mean ‘kept ’ as a jailer keeps a 
pris’ner, or ‘ kept ’ as a scout keeps a lookout ?” 

It takes some little time for the one addressed to over- 
come his surprise in getting Greek from such an unexpect- 
ed source. It is wine to him from a spring which he hard- 
ly supposed would yield any water, even, but of the mud- 
diest. 

Mr. Long has supplied him with a subject of conversa- 
tion entirely to his taste, and, suppressing his surprise for 
the moment, he discusses the passage with zest. There 
are other passages to be examined after this one, and the 
young theologian grows somewhat cautious in his explana- 
tions as they proceed ; there is no telling but the bronzed 
hunter may know more about it than he. The General 
smokes his pipe out of sight below them, with a satisfac- 
tion in having such conversation in his house too. 

“ But how did you come to learn the Greek, Mr. Long ?” 
asks the young minister at length ; “ and I wonder my 
uncle never told me about it,” he added. 

“ Your uncle’s got a sight of things more important 
than me to talk about. Well, it’s too long a story for the 

8 


114 


The New Timothy. 


little Greek I know,” replies the hunter. “You wouldn’t 
believe it, but I was fitted for college when I was a boy. 
Sorry to say my father was an infidel. He’d set his heart 
on my getting a good education, if ’twas only to do so 
much more damage to religion. But he was very dissipat- 
ed — sing’lar for his own son to say so, but it was a fact. 
I went on to college, entered the Freshman class one Mon- 
day morning ; was expelled from college next Saturday 
rafternoon; got on a terrible spree; never once thought 
they’d object to thatP^ 

“ You had learned the Greek when a boy, then ?” asks 
<^harles. 

“ Mighty little,” replies his companion. “ No ; it was in 
this way: You see, I ran away from home. Father gave 
me a little too much beating when I got back from college 
in disgrace. I was getting at that age, you know, a boy 
won’t stand a stick — specially a wild chap like me. Yes, 
I ran away, and have been in the woods ever sence. Yes, 
took to the woods, you see, like the wild animal I was.” 

“ But how about the Greek ?” asks Charles, for his new 
friend is slow in answering his question. 

“ Well, the General can tell you,” says the hunter, 
glancing at that individual, “ what a terrible hard case 
I’ve been ; up to every sort of wickedness an’ devilment I 
do suppose,” he continued, slowly and with some embar- 
rassment, “ a man ever was guilty of. It’s awful to think 
of, General, what a case I have been !” he adds, with sin- 
cerest solemnity. 

The General nods his head in grave but entire concur- 
rence — taking his pipe from his mouth to add to the so- 
lemnity of his assent. 

“ I’ve heard of men,” continues the hunter, “ when they 
became Christians, love to talk — especially about the first 
of their joining the church — of how bad they’ve been. 


Bob Long’s Religious Experience. 115 

Thejr’d take a sort o’ pleasure in telling how particularly 
bad they’d been before. It always seemed to me like a 
kind o’ glorying in their past wickedness ; like a kind o’ 
being too certain sure of never getting back into the rock 
whence they were hewn, of never slipping back into the 
hole of the pit whence they were digged. I don’t know. 
However ! I don’t like to look much behind me. With me 
it’s a sort of flight from Sodom, a kind of escape for thy 
life — ‘ Look not behind thee !’ I don’t know. I hate to 
talk much about my religion. There’s precious little to 
talk about — my part in it, I mean. Besides, it’s like hot 
water in a camp-kettle a-boiling. I have a sort of fear 
that hot kind of religion will all pass off in talking. 
Humph ! and here I am taking it out in talking this min- 
ute, running other people’s religion down at that — people 
a sight better than I am !” 

“ But you haven’t told me about the Greek yet,” says 
Charles Wall, clinging to the point. 

‘‘ It was only this,” replies the hunter, speaking with a 
singular conflict in his face between perfect frankness and 
a reluctance to talk of himself ; “ when it all first began, 
after I got a little over that first great joy — oh, isn’t it 
wonderful, wonderful He should so love us !” he said to 
Charles, with the simplicity of a child, held, in passing, by 
the Truth ever fresh in its infinite wonder to his mind. 

The young minister bowed his head with fast filling 
eyes. The fact, old in itself as Eternity, over-familiar to 
him from perpetual presentation, came with a newness to 
his ears ; there was something in the language, and more 
in the expression of the hunter’s face, as if Calvary was an 
event of yesterday’s occurrence, an event arrived as to- 
day’s telegram. 

“ You see,” continues the hunter, after a pause, pushing 
up his old felt hat from his bronzed face, “ after I began 


116 


The New Timothy. 


to get a little used to the astonishing fact of the case — I 
suppose it must be something like when a man first comes 
into a tremendous fortune, kind of bewildered with happi- 
piness, only vastly more so in this case, at the start — when 
I could look around me a little I says to myself, ‘ Bob 
Long, I know mighty little about you, an’ nothing good. 
But I know one thing. You’d a million times over better 
never been born than tumble back again into what you 
were. Sow that is washed to her wallowin’ — look out ! 
You are only just on the edge like, your feet barely on the 
edge, nothing more. Now,’ says I, ‘ your plan is to go 
into this new matter with all the force you’ve got. No 
danger it’ll be too much ! So I went to reading the Bible 
— not only a chapter or so every day, but at it, you’ll un- 
derstand, at it ! like a man mauling rails ; at it like into a 
business — like into a kind of work should take up as much 
of my time and thoughts and feelings as possible. I’m 
afraid you can’t understand,” he added, anxiously. 

“ Yes I do,” replied Charles, “ perfectly. My uncle is a 
man of very ardent temperament — very active in what- 
ever he undertakes. He has often told me that the grand 
reason he entered the ministry was just that. He was 
afraid unless he gave himself up altogether to religion by 
becoming a minister of the gospel — ” 

‘‘ Exactly,” interrupted the hunter, with kindled eye. 
‘‘ Had to pitch in head foremost, whole body, or not at all ! 
I know his sort — either a very good man or an exceedin’ 
wicked one ! Precisely what I felt. So, when I had read 
the Bible through once or twice, I says to myself, ‘ now, 
what next ?’ You see, I was like a man running in the 
snow, ’fraid to stop running lest I might begin to freeze ; 
like a buck with the dogs after him — can’t afiTord to stop 
even to scratch ! One day it struck me like a slug. It 
was at church one time Mr. Merkes was explaining what 


Philological Studies. 


117 


the Greek was of some passage he had up ; h£|(lf the people 
asleep, I’m bound to say — excuse me, General, 1 forgot you 
was one of them ! Yes, like a slug. Why not learn to 
read the Testament in the language it was written in? 
Hard work, I know ; but that’s just 'what I need — some- 
thing to keep me at it hard ! Long time ? Very well, 
when I get through with it I’ll be just that much farther 
on the road. So at it I went — and that’s all.” 

“ But how did you manage ?” asked Charles. 

“Very easy when I came up with the thing. I rode 
over to Hoppleton. Your uncle laughed and let me have 
the books out of his book-case — Grammar, Lexicon, and 
Greek Testament. I offered to pay him. ‘Pshaw, Mr. 
Long ! no,’ he says ; ‘ you’ll only have them a little while : 
soon send them back.’ ‘We’ll see,’ says 1. Few months 
afterwards I sent him the money, and back he sends it. 
Then I tried him with ven’son — he couldn’t send that back 
well.” 

“ But I don’t understand yet,” says Charles. “ How do 
you find time and place for study ?” 

“ Plenty of time, especially of winter nights. My cabin’s 
the place, of course ; why not ?” 

“But didn’t you find it very difficult studying alone, 
without a teacher ?” asks Charles, greatly interested. 

“ I broke down right at the start,” says the hunter, 
knocking up the broad and hanging rim of his hat from 
his brow with a back-handed motion, and entering with 
increasing energy on his narration. “ You see it was this 
way, and you’ll be amazed what a fool I was. It was the 
alphabet. There was Alpha, Beta, and the rest. I soon 
had them by heart. Now, says I to myself, put any two 
of these letters together — say Alpha, Beta — and what in 
creation does Alpha, Beta, spell ? How can a fellow com- 
bine the two sounds into one sound ? Did you ever know 


118 


The New Timothy. 


such a fool ? Believe it ? I rode over to your uncle to 
ask him. I thought he never would stop laughing : you 
know what a sunny, happy sort of man he is. ‘ Don’t 
know your a, b, abs, Mr. Long ? well !’ he says. Then he 
showed me the places in Romans, Galatians, Mark, where 
it says, Abba, Father. But the idea of giving Greek let- 
ters, with the names they have, English sounds ! I declare 
I can’t see into it to this day.” 

“ And how after that ?” asks Charles, laughing. 

“No difficulty at all ; smooth and easy as you please, 
the rest of the trail. You see, when a man once gets fair- 
ly on the trail, he’s all safe.” 

“ But you seem to have done with this matter — I mean 
as a thing requiring hard labor — close attention,” says the 
young minister. 

“ Well, I have read the Testament through only once in 
the Greek yet. Slow work it was, something like hacking 
and hewing and squeezing one’s way through a cane- 
brake after a bear. Coming upon and getting hold of the 
exact meanin’ of a passage in its very hole like — it’s as ex- 
citing as hunting itself. The very work’s a pleasure, most 
pleasure when it’s hardest. You know children like nuts 
more’n any thing else, just because they’ve got to crack 
the shell to get at the kernels. Nobody cares for kernels 
in a clean plate all picked out already. And then when 
you get at the kernel of a hard passage, after hours of 
hammering with lexicon an’ grammar, it’s not only fresh 
and new, and exactly hits like, but it’s fixed in your mem- 
ory for ever and ever. I never enjoyed myself more than 
there in my cabin of a winter night, lyin’ on a bearskin be- 
fore the fire, working away with my books — blaze of the 
pine-knots on the page. But I’ll tell you one thing,” said 
the hunter, bringing his chair down upon its four legs 
again, while he searched under his red flannel shirt, beneath 


Mr. Long’s Ideas about Greek and Hebrew. 119 

the heavy tangle of shot-pouches, and powder-flask, and 
dangling chargers of antelope-horn, and the like. 

“ And what is that ?” asked Charles, awaiting with inter- 
est the result of the search. 

“ This,” said the hunter at last, producing a long, thin 
volume from his bosom. “ Greek isn’t as easy as it might 
be, ’specially to a fellow in his cabin fifty miles from any 
help, an’ just beginning. But I tell you,” he continued, 
with gravest sincerity, “ it’s nothing to the Hebrew — not 
a circumstance !” 

“Hebrew !” ejaculated Mr. Walk 

“ I tell you,” said the hunter, evidently with the empha- 
sis of painful experience, “ Hebrew is tough ! ” 

“Do I understand you to say you’ve undertaken the 
Hebrew?” asked his companion, with rapidly increasing 
surprise, interest, and sympathy. 

“ You may well say undertaken it ; and it’s the heaviest 
job I ever did undertake. Yes, sir,” said Mr. Long, with 
an almost exhausted look upon his brown face: not an 
atom of boastfulness in the man. 

“ But, my dear sir, what induced you — ?’ began his com- 
panion. 

“ Same reason,” replied the hunter. “ Soon as the Greek 
began to get a little easy, you know, a little broken to my 
bridle, you see — though I’m far enough from knowing 
much about it yet — I began to look around for something 
else in regard to religion to go into, you understand — some- 
thing to keep me hard at it ; every spare minute at work 
rushing it forward. The day I finished the 'New Testa- 
ment in the Greek, ‘ Now,’ says I to myself, and to your 
uncle too, for I rode over to see him — ‘ now for the Old 
Testament in its original language.’ It’s in the Old Testa- 
ment that amazin’ Fifty-first Psalm is, you know — ‘ Have 
mercy upon me ’ — you remember ? If I do know a place 


120 


The New Timothy. 


in the Bible, if I oughter know a place in all the Bible, it’s 
that^ you know. Well, your uncle loaned me Lexicon, 
Manual, Grammar, an’ Bible — only he didn’t laugh this 
time ; the tears somehow came into his eyes, an’ before he 
let me oiff he insisted upon prayin’ with me. Oh ! if you 
only could manage to make such a man as him ! If there’s 
something in blood in horses — an’ I guess I ought to 
know : many’s the hour I’ve spent, and the dollar I’ve 
won, and lost too, for that matter, on race-course, — then 
there must be something in blood in men. You’re of 
good stock, any how. Though I’m bound to say,” the 
speaker added, after some reflection, “ you can never, of 
course, come to be quite all your uncle is : you know no 
man can ever quite come to be that j'” he adds, as if stating 
a self-evident proposition, his eyes fastened like those of a 
little child on his new friend, who assents heartily thereto, 
and then adds, 

“ Thank you ; but how did you succeed about the He- 
brew ?” 

“ That’s yet to know,” said Mr. Long, with a somewhat 
troubled face. “I’ve been at it only some two or three 
months, or so. It’s such a sing’lar language. The letters 
are like nothing else in the world, unless it is a Mexican 
horse-brand. And then those points, little dots, you know, 
swarmin’ over the whole page, and botherin’ one like 
gnats. I’m told they’ve come into the language since 
Moses. He never would have put them there. They’re 
worse than the lice he cursed the Egyptians with, crawlin’ 
so, beg your pardon, over every single word an’ letter ! I 
don’t care so much about having to read backward, like a 
bear backing towards its hole fighting the dogs off with its 
paws — only there’s such a whirl of confusion about piecing 
out the words, first at one end an’ then at the other ; then 
there’s that constant hop an’ skip with a fellow to guess 


Hunting Hebrew Roots. 


121 


what lies between ; then that Sh^wa simple^ an’ ShDiaa com* 
pounds Pattah furtive^ Paghesh forty an’ Paghesh leny^ 
Mappik and Baphe^ and a thousand things of the sort. I 
tell you, I’ve lain there on that bearskin by the fire work- 
ing at it till the sweat would pour down ! Twenty times 
I’ve shut the books up and put them in my old box for 
good. Humph! And I’ve sat and looked at the chest 
those books was in as if it was a kind of cage of varmints, 
each all claws and teeth. I’ve felt, at times, actually afraid 
of them books ! Then I would say, ‘ You think I can’t, do 
you ? I’ll tame you, if it takes years !’ Next leisure time 
I’m sure to let them out and go at it again ! You see, 
when once I get after any thing I hate to give it up, if it’s 
only a squirrel. One thing I know, that is. I’ll never have 
to hunt up something more to go at ; that Hebrew’ll keep 
me hard at it, if I live that long, for next fifty years ! 

‘‘ But here’s one thing,” added the hunter, “ brought me 
over to-day. Your uncle’s a little rusty, he says — been so 
long from the Seminary. He told me to hold on till you 
came out — you’ll be fresh from it, he said. So I want 
you to explain this thing to me — it’s the hardest knot I’ve 
come on yet.” 

So saying, Mr. Long draws up his chair close beside his 
new friend, who is both pleased and a little alarmed at the 
prospect. Mr. Long opens the grammar before them — its 
page blackened and worn with unmistakable struggle. 
For accuracy he draws the bowie-knife from its leathern 
sheath at his waist and points out the place on the page. 
“ Be a little keerful,” he says ; “ you see I keep it sharp as 
possible. When you’ve shot your deer you must cut a 
good, deep, clean gash to let out all the blood — meat’s 
spiled if you don’t. It’s the only thing in close quarters 
with a bear, too ; wrap up your left hand in your saddle- 
blanket, say, and hold it out to him ; as he grabs it with 


122 


The New Timothy. 


his paws you have your knife ready in your right, and let 
him have all of it, every inch, just under the left fore- 
shoulder, he’ll never say ‘ beans ’ again ! Only that ain’t 
what we’re after just now.” 

The freshly elected and inaugurated Professor of He- 
brew can not help glancing at the hand which holds the 
knife to the page — huge and hairy, and almost black from 
long roughing it. The little finger is lacking — “ bitten 
ofi* by a bear cub I was trying to raise by hand ; you see 
he sucked too hard,” was the explanation subsequently 
given. There is a gash or two besides, to match similar 
scars on one cheek. As to his muscular body under the 
flannel shirt, it is tattooed by the claws of wild animals 
and wilder boon companions in the days of his folly, in a 
manner which would insure his instant election as King 
of the Cannibal Islands had he moved in that circle of so- 
ciety. 

Mr. Long has removed his voluminous hat altogether 
from his head, to enable him to sit nearer his new friend 
over the page, as well as to allow his intellectual organs 
full play. He is exceeding rough, but very far from home- 
ly, as he bends over the page, satisfying very well a young 
lady’s idea of that magnificent pirate who is eternally an- 
nouncing — on the piano — to the unwearied object of his af- 
fections, “ This night and forever my bride thou must be !” 
As he listens to Mr. Wall’s explanation, he is engaged, in 
the intensity of his attention, in curling together a lock of 
his black whiskers and forcing it into the corner of his 
mouth on that side, listening and biting. General Likens 
sits to one side in his arm-chair, his pipe in his mouth and 
his feet on the balusters of the piazza, his chair being tilt- 
ed back for that purpose, serenely satisfied, although utter- 
ly forgotten and lost sight of by his guests. 

Once or twice Mrs. General Likens, with the scent of 


Studying. 


123 


fresh prey, has appeared on the doorway of the house 
from within. The watchful General has on each occasion, 
however, taken his pipe from his lips to shake his head at 
her not to disturb his guests in their sacred studies, and 
has thus dispersed her for the time. She complies the 
more willingly, both because she dreads the grasp of Mr. 
Long’s hand, and because John is yet alive within to be 
further entertained. 

And so the hours glide along. The Hebraists pursue 
their labors — Mr. Long lunching incessantly on the ends 
of his whiskers, and his instructor perfectly at home with 
the familiar book in his grasp. The very aroma of semi- 
nary and lecture-room is upon its pages. The General 
smokes, fills and refills his cob-pipe, and smokes again, 
thinking many things, and listening, somewhat superficial- 
ly, to the rattle of the Hebrew. The sun shines bright, 
and the bees are coming and going at their stand by the 
front paling. In the orchard adjacent the guinea-hens 
have clustered into a knot, and keep up a steady and 
unanimous potrack ! potrack ! off to themselves together, 
like politicians on both sides at Washington, exciting and 
emulating each other in discord, luxuriating in senseless 
jargon, while the bees toil and the hens cluck their strag- 
gling charges here and there in the front yard, as indiffer- 
ent to their racket as are the people, absorbed about their 
homes and honest business, to the empty uproar aforesaid. 
If bees and poultry and men reasoned correctly, they 
would all agree that it is, after all, an admirable arrange- 
ment by which all the bad humors of the body social are 
brought to a head in the persons of these politicians, 
feathered and unfeathered. 

Yes, it is well the most fevered ones — of the human 
species we now speak — are herded off* to themselves — for 
a good part of the time, at any rate — in the domed and 


124 


The New Timothy. 


columned lazaretto at Washington, and every capital, in- 
fecting and exhausting themselves only upon each other. 
If those who live there, where breaks the boil of the whole 
body politic, fancy their location a healthful one, very well. 
But this is a parenthesis only, a remark altogether irrele- 
vant, penned up here to itself, and not to be permitted to 
run at large over these pages. 

I must step out to look after dinner, child,” Mrs. Gen- 
eral Likens says, at last, to John, who cheerfully assents. 
“ Only don’t let me forget to give you your basket when 
you must go,” adds that lady, catching sight of that article 
on the mantle as she is passing out. “ And, dear me,” she 
hastens back to remark, “ as I live, yonder comes Aramin- 
ta Allen, to make a call on you. She’ll stay to dinner, and 
you must entertain her, child, while I see about things. 
She’s mighty free of speech, dear ; she’s rich, bless you ! 
Be a little on your guard. ’Member, she’s the one sent 
that Josiah Evers whirling. Don’t give her any hold on 
you any way — only I know you won’t. Safest plan, child, 
for us all is to start her about Amelia Ann and Mr. 
Merkes ; that’ll keep her busy all her stay, I’ll warrant. 
You see, Mr. Merkes, he said at the funeral he was nigh 
certain sure Amelia Ann was lost ; died, you must have 
heard of it, soon after dancin’ all night. Araminta’s only 
sister she was. An’ Araminta, she never has stopped 
abusin’ poor Mr. Merkes for it five minutes at a time, an’ 
never will. Bless you, she’ll begin about it as soon’s she 
sees you ! Talk? My ! You leave it all to me. I’ll fix 
it !” With this rather unnecessary injunction Mrs. Gen- 
eral Likens hurried from the room, first to receive and 
send in her new guest, and then to the kitchen, to turn a 
little more steam, figuratively speaking, upon the prepara- 
tions for dinner. 


Enter Bug Burleson. 


125 


Chapter XII. 

Another Arrival, and the Return Home. 

B ug BURLESOX, in charge of Sally, her little black 
nurse, or rather Sally in charge of Bug, happened to 
be, the same day, at Mr. Burleson’s front gate, there in 
Hoppleton, when her brother Edward drives up. The 
prompt and imperative demand of the Bug to be taken in- 
stantly out riding receives from him a refusal as prompt 
and decided, as he hurries into the house to leave a word 
explaining his absence. 

Now, in the reasoning of Bug, a pressing emergency re- 
quired instant remedy. At her command Sally lifted her 
charge into the buggy, holding up also the leathern cur- 
tain of its seat while Bug creeps beneath the same. In 
justice to Sally, she acted under protest. There had been 
no case so far in her short career in which Bug had failed 
to have her own way with every member of the family, to 
say nothing of Sally. 

Scarcely had Sally lodged Bug under the seat when 
Burleson reappeared at the front door, leaving her no 
choice but to fly for her life. It was true the horse was 
spirited, and standing unfastened ; but there is an excep- 
tion to the laws of nature when a child is concerned. The 
horse did not run away, though Rarey himself would have 
justified him if he had; and his master soon had him do- 
ing his best along the road, not dreaming of the passenger 
under his seat. As it happened, the canvas cover of the 
liad been folded away under it ; and into this Bug 


126 


The New Timothy. 


had managed to nestle herself as snug as her namesake in 
a rug. Her plan was to remain hidden there until suffi- 
ciently far from home to insure her, at least, a good long 
ride in being carried back. The darkness and the motion 
soon sent her to sleep, however, tired already from play 
and abundance of previous mischief ; and the unconscious 
brother is near twenty miles on his road when a sudden 
cry from beneath him, and a kick against his boot, nearly 
sends him out of his buggy with surprise. He reins up 
his horse, and proceeds to draw his passenger from under 
deck. It is something of a job ; for Bug is very plump 
and the fit a tight one, and his horse restless. He has her, 
at last, standing between his knees, very much soiled and 
astonished, her flaxen hair over her rosy face, a vast deal 
too sweet and audacious to be angry with. 

“ You break my whole trip completely up, you little 
imp of — light !” he says, kissing her half-awakened face, 
and turning his horse short around in the road homeward. 

“ But no ! I’ll try it now ; she won’t understand us,” 
he adds in the same breath, turning his horse back again ; 
and so drives on with added speed. 

“Why, Bug, what did you get in for?” he asks at last, 
his wrath beginning to rekindle. 

“ Thithter Nan,” explains that insect. 

“Sister Nan! No, Madam; Nan wouldn’t do it; not 
fun enough in her for that. Besides I left her in the par- 
lor,” says Burleson. “ Little fibber !” 

“ Oh, she is tho croth,” says Bug, in further explanation. 
“ She thcolds and thcolds tho ! She thes I’m a bother and 
a petht. I wath running away from her, you thee ! Oh, 
brother Ned, she is tho croth !” says Bug, with all her em- 
phasis, anxious to justify her course, and delighted at the 
direction they are going. “ Thally thes her black mammy 
thes it’s because thithter Nan can’t get a huthband. She 


Some Burlesons. 


127 


thcolds in the houth, and she thcolds in the garden, and 
she thcolds in the kitchen! And Thally thes her black 
mammy thes it’s awful now, and it’s getting wus and wus 
every day ! Drive on, brother Ned ; don’t leth go back 
to her any more !” 

Bug prattles away in a steady stream. But Burleson is 
full of his own thoughts. The one chime thereof are John, 
Louisiana ! John, Louisiana ! He can not say when the 
chime begun, but it has rung in his ear in office, at table, 
in midnight wakings, very steadily for some time now. 
The worst of it is, the chime is ringing louder and still 
louder every passing day. Besides, there is a kind of 
sense of Wall walking steadily before him, he near behind, 
endeavoring to pass Wall on the one side or the other all 
the time, and so far unable to do it. With any body else 
— somebody with whom he can be at open war — the case 
would be different. But Wall is an annoyance to him just 
so much the more as that he can not but sincerely like 
him. 

“ Hang him, if he’d only become crazy enough to marry 
Nan !” he says at last aloud. 

“ Marry thithter Nan. Oh, I’m tho glad !” says Bug, 
wdth a clap of the hands which frightens his horse, and 
recalls him to himself. 

An hour or so more and the brother drives up to Gen- 
eral Likens’s front gate. 

“ Thank you, you see I have !” says Burleson, in his frank, 
cordial way to General Likens’s invitation to alight; the 
General standing, with hand shading his eyes, on the 
front porch. “ I had business in this neighborhood, and 
venture to stop a moment,” he adds to the company on the 
piazza, after due introduction and salutation. Bug smug- 
gled herself in. 

“ Yeth, because thithter Nan — ” begins Bug. 


128 


The New Timothy. 


“ Hush, Bug !” says Burleson, with his hand on hei 
mouth, and Bug finishes her sentence in John’s ear, into 
whose lap she has climbed, as being the only friend there. 

“ And your name is Bug ?” says Mrs. General Likens, 
returning from her perpetual excursions in and out of the 
house. 

“ Yeth, and I’m tho hungry !” is the prompt reply. 

Nothing could have gratified Mrs. General Likens more ; 
next to reading her verses to her guests, or talking to them, 
nothing pleased her more than feeding them. And so 
John and Bug disappear with their hostess into the house, 
where soap and comb, as well as cake, are called into 
requisition. 

The General, after a question or two, resumes his pipe, 
one guest happier than before — a little proud, too, of the 
visit from the handsome son of his old Hoppleton ac- 
quaintance. His wife knew better than that from the 
first. The more that lady considers the matter, as she 
cuts cake in rapid succession of slices for Bug, the more is 
she reconciled to it. The thing is too transparent for her 
even to pride herself at all upon seeing through it all at 
the first glance. “ Teachin’ school !” she exclaims to her- 
self ; “ not so soon, I guess !” 

As to Wall, after his first pleased surprise at seeing 
Burleson — after being for the moment particularly grati- 
fied to learn that he is to have his company on the road to 
Hoppleton in the morning — on further reflection he is not 
so certain he is glad to see him at last. 

“Yes, I’ll be going back to-morrow; that is” — Burleson 
adds, with laughing wave of his hand towards the General, 
— “if the General will give Bug and myself a pallet on 
the floor for to-night.” 

“ Twenty,” says the General, without removing his pipe. 

Now why was it that Burleson’s coming had cast a 


Taking Partnees. 


129 


kind of damp upon the party? Wall sat thinking even at 
the supper-table. John opposite him there had nothing 
to say. Nothing occurred to the General after he had 
helped all from the broiled chickens before him. Mr. Long 
ate, from long habit, in silence. Bug occupied a chair be- 
side John at the table, kept awake after her long ride only 
by a species of cake upon her plate new to her palate. 

“But where is Mr. Long?” asks Mr. Wall, when they 
come to sit down to the breakfast-table next morning. 

“ Up and off before day. Said he allowed to meet you 
on Plum Creek. It’s just half-way on the road to town. 
Mighty apt to do it,” said the General. 

But Mr. Wall entirely forgets Mr. Long when they 
come to start for Hoppleton. 

“ Suppose I relieve Miss John of you,” says Burleson, as 
they stand beside their respective buggies awaiting that 
lady, who is keeping them waiting, according to the in- 
alienable and immemorial usage of every female from Lot’s 
wife, and before that, to the present hour. 

“Relieve Miss John of me?” asks Mr. Wall, with the 
dignity of a clergyman, only as an excuse to hesitate. 

“ Weil, relieve you of Miss John, then,” explains Burle- 
son, coolly. “ She must be tired of you by this time ; let 
her get tired of me a little. Better let her ride back with 
me.” 

Most assuredly not, replies Mr. Wall, promptly, in his 
heart. “ Certainly, if she wishes it,” he says in the same 
instant with his lips. 

“ And you can have Bug with you,” adds Burleson, with 
great kindness, and as a happy thought. At this instant 
Miss John appears. 

“I like to have forgotten it, child,” says Mrs. General 
Likens, who accompanies her, basket in hand. “ But I re- 
membered it this morning, and put in more. I’ve filled it 

9 


130 


The New Timothy. 


full ; I hope you’ll find it good,” and the old lady deposits 
the heavy basket carefully under the seat of Wall’s buggy 
beside valise and carpet-bag. 

“Mr. Wall insists you shall ride with me,” says Burle- 
son ; “ I could not get ofi* from him at all.” And that 
young gentleman decided her hesitation by assisting her 
in accordingly. Mrs. General Likens bestows a nudge 
with her elbow upon the General, who stands by her side, 
and a smiling glance upon Miss John, which that young 
lady feels, with mounting color, although she does not see 
it. Mr. Burleson having taken adieu of all, is about to 
drive off — 

“Bug — but where is Bug?” asks John, coloring still 
higher at her companion’s forgetfulness. 

“ Bless the child ! yes,” says Mrs. General Likens, and 
hurries off in search of her. 

“ Dear me,” says the General in the pause, “ we liked to 
to have forgot !” and he hastens into the house and returns 
with a large newspaper bundle. “Bite for you on the 
road,” he explains, proceeding to put it into the minister’s 
buggy. 

“Oh, thank you. General,” John calls from her buggy; 
“ But Mrs. Likens has given it to us already — a great bas- 
ket-full ! We have more than enough.” 

“You had better take it,” says the General, his head a 
little on one side, as he holds it in his hand, and prophecy 
in his tones. 

“Thank you, General; no. We have enough — more 
than enough. No; much obliged to you.” 

The General dislikes to contend; hands the bundle to 
Isham, who has brought around the horses, and resumes 
his pipe. 

“ Chasing the guinea-hens in the back lot,” Mrs. General 
Likens explains, appearing at this instant with Bug in a 


The Ride. 


131 


soiled condition, covered head and body in an enormous 
sun-bonnet of the old lady’s in lieu of her own, left behind 
in her hasty departure from home. Burleson has already 
driven off, Bug is assisted in, with a parting kiss from the 
General’s wife, a hasty good-bye, and Wall drives off also. 

Swiftly the travellers move along the road. Their horses 
have been well fed. Besides, Wall has an unconscious re- 
solve to make Mike keep as near the party in advance as 
possible ; while Burleson, who has the better horse, has a 
more conscious resolve that his friend shall be left as far 
behind as convenient. Bug entertains her companion. 
She tells him — incidentally — perhaps more of her “ thithter 
N an,” and other family matters, than is desirable. IST ot that 
Burleson had not anticipated this, but it was to him the 
lesser alternative of the two. Wall was tempted at first 
to sink as usual into brown study. From Mr. Merkes’s ex- 
ample he is beginning to fear lest such study may become 
browner and browner, if indulged in, until it becomes black. 
By an effort he throws his thoughts entirely out of the 
buggy, and cultivates Bug. He tells her a fairy tale or 
two, holding her in at the catastrophe of each, lest she 
should tumble out with her emotion. As to keeping up 
with the other buggy, he soon finds that to do that with any 
degree of satisfactory nearness is hopeless. There is a good 
deal of deep sand to be gone through, and in the course of 
time he judges, by Bug’s appetite if not by his own, that 
it must be noon or nearly, when he sees that the buggy in 
advance has stopped by a creek. Plum Creek ? Yes ; for 
there is Bobasheela tied off to one side, and there also 
stands his master. • 

“ You drive a little on,” Mr. Long calls to him in turn 
as he drives nearer. “ It might frighten your horse,” he 
explains, as Mr. Wall complies. It does not frighten 
either of the horses, but it does astonish Mr. Wall when he 


132 


The 'Rbw Timothy. 


looks back and sees that, Mr. Long having moved a little, 
a huge deer hangs suspended by its hind legs from a post- 
oak bough. “ Yes, a tollable fine buck,” Mr. Long remarks, 
when the gentlemen have tied their horses securely and 
joined him. “ Yaas,” Mr. Long further remarks, “ I was 
up tollable early, not very, tied on a red handkerchief, and 
soon got him;” and Wall observes that Mr. Long’s head 
is tied up in that article still, while his hat is fastened to 
the saddle of his horse. Of course none but a Seminarian 
can be ignorant of the motive of the hunter in this, and he, 
very properly, is ashamed to ask. 

In fact, that clergyman is mainly occupied in endeavor- 
ing, furtively but eagerly, to gather from the countenances 
of Burleson and John what traces of their conversation 
may be visible thereon. 

“ I’ve had it flayed some time,” says Mr. Long ; “ but I 
kept it hanging to get cool as possible. Won’t take me 
five minutes to cut it up to fit in the buggy.” 

“ I’m tho hungry,” says Bug at this juncture. 

“While Mr. Long finishes suppose we have dinner?” 
suggests John. It is cordially assented to by all. Burle- 
son clears off a smooth spot on the grass beneath a tree, 
while Wall arranges the cushions from the buggies there- 
on, and John brings the basket — enough for a little army, 
one would judge, from the size and apparent weight of the 
same ; and the appetite of all is sensibly increased as they 
seat themselves conveniently around with expectant eyes. 
Miss John unties the lid and draws out a roll of paper. 

“ Tongue !” conjectures Burleson. 

“Poetry !” exclaims John, unrolling to view the foolscap 
manuscript. 

“Tongue, but the wrong kind just now,” says Burleson, 
after the explosion. 

“Yes, it is so kind in her,” says John. “ She put it on 


A Repast. 


133 


the top of our dinner. It will do for desert !” But her 
cheerfulness vanishes as she says it. Another package — a 
shorter one — of rhyme ! Mrs. Likens always wrote blank 
verse on foolscap, rhyme on letter-paper: it was a pecu- 
liarity of genius. A dreadful suspicion seizes upon Wall. 

Permit me !” he says, and empties the basket on the 
grass. Only manuscript, and plenty of it ! There is a 
shout of laughter. Except Bug, however : she burst into 
weeping from the outset. In fact, in a moment or two the 
rest of the party feel strongly like joining her. But it is 
too ludicrous, and they again give way to merriment, loud 
and long continued. 

“^^'ever mind says John, at last. “Hush, Bug, dear; 
we will get Mr. Wall to make up to us for our dinner by 
reading a little of it.” The proposition is scoffed at, and 
Bug’s cries rise louder and louder. Mr. Long’s heart is 
touched. 

“ Never you mind, little sis,” he says. “ Wait just a lit- 
tle bit ; see if I don’t have dinner for you.” 

Mr. Long lays aside his bloody knife, heaps a pile of dead 
leaves against a log, fires his rifie into the pile with the 
end among the leaves, and a flame rises upon the spot. 

“Don’t put on leaves, gentlemen, bark instead, if you 
please; it’s coals we want, not blaze or smoke,” he adds, 
as they bestir themselves to assist. Bug dries her tears 
at the sight, and in ten minutes the hunter supplies Bug 
first, and then the rest, with a slice of broiled venison. 

“Needn’t fear about the salt,” he says; “I always keep 
it in a paper separate from my tobacco — ’casionlly it will 
get mixed a little. Coffee too,” he adds, putting a tin 
cup of water from the creek on to boil, and pouring part 
of the contents of a paper therein. “ I never do without it 
when I can help. Better than whisky any day. Here’s a 
paper of sugar too ; milk I never use.” 


134 


The New Timothy. 


John recollects that half a loaf and some cakes have 
been left in a round box from last Saturday’s road-side 
snack. The result is a hearty dinner at last for all. 
Mrs. Likens’s poetry is gathered up and consigned to the 
basket for another time. 

It takes but a little while for Mr. Long to salt the re- 
mainder of the venison well, wrap it up in the skin, and 
tie it .on securely behind Mr. Wall’s buggy with strips cut 
from the skin. A haunch is placed — somewhat against 
Mr. Burleson’s protestations — under the seat of his vehicle 
in the place before occupied by Bug. Mr. Long then 
draws Wall a little to one side, and whispers : 

“I’ve fastened on the antlers to your running gear 
under out of sight. You tell your uncle the meat’s part 
pay for them Hebrew books. Hope he won’t find it as 
tough as I’ve found them! You tell your uncle,” he con- 
tinued, in a lower tone, “ to nail up them antlers on to a 
tree or fence or something out of sight like about the yard. 
Tell him, when he sees them, to think of another proud an- 
imal — wild enough one at that — he knows who I mean — 
a-cavorting an’ loping along to ruin, struck right down in 
his tracks. Only it was life not death he got ! Ah, well, 
never mind ; he’ll know what I mean. Good-bye. I’ll see 
you again. I’ve got a little plan in my head about those 
Meggar boys. Want you to help me. Haven’t studied it 
out yet. At least may be so. Good-bye.” And, without 
further salutation. Brown Bob Long coils up his rope, 
hangs it upon the pommel of his old saddle, mounts, and is 
gone. 

“We will change places now, Bug,” says John, as they 
are about to get into their respective vehicles to continue 
their journey. 

“ No, Miss John,” says Wall, the least smack in the 
world of sourness, of Mr. Merkes, in fact, in his tones, “ it is 


Pkeyisions. 


135 


your kindness to me — I won’t rob Mr. Burleson of the 
pleasure. Besides, Bug and I are just getting acquainted, 
and it is not far from town now.” 

Very good, Mr. Wall ; but ofttimes very important 
things take place in a very brief space of time ! 


136 


The New Timothy. 


Chapter XIII. 

A Family Council convened. 

4 MOST manifest Providence !” exclaims Mr. Wall, 
the uncle, and the very moment he hears it read. 

For his nephew has just had a letter from the great city 
of all that region inviting him to visit its greatest church 
with view to a settlement therein, “ if the way be clear,” 
and this letter the nephew has brought direct from the 
post-office to his uncle’s study for his advice thereon. And 
here beginneth a lesson in human nature if we only had 
time to study it. This noble old clergyman would have 
shrunk from such a charge had it been pressed upon him 
in his early ministry — though actually filling two or three 
fully as important afterwards ; yet he regards the modest 
reluctance of his nephew as commendable and — morbid. 
He doubted his own ability for such a position then, yet 
has not the least doubt on that point in reference to this 
nephew. 

The solemn fact is, Eli tolerated things in his sons that he 
would have died rather than do in his own youth. Samuel 
bore his awful message to Eli, yet played the same fool- 
ish father over again in reference to his thoroughly worth- 
less sons, every one of them. David, too, actually petted 
in Absalom what he would have deemed himself possessed 
of Saul’s evil spirit if he had even dreamed of doing in his 
own youth. So of Solomon in reference to Rehoboam, and 
of every father in reference to every son up to date ; ex- 
cept, dear friend, your father. 


Uncle and Nephew. 


137 


It is astonishing. In his youthful days Mr. Wall senior 
would as soon have prayed for pestilence upon him as 
riches, for this he had not the faintest desire then ; no, nor 
since. But for his nephew he does desire at least a hand- 
some supply of the good things of this life ; never thinks 
for a moment that riches might be as disastrous in their 
influence upon said nephew as he was positively certain 
they would be in his own case. He has reference in his 
present decision to the ample salary his nejohew will re- 
ceive if pastor of the city church as a reason he should ac- 
cept, though with him it would have been a strong motive 
for declining. Perfectly willing to suffer himself the mar- 
tyrdom of poverty forever, but very unwilling this nejAiew 
of his should have a joint racked or a hair singed. 

Let the whole truth be told, and so he reasons and so he 
feels in another matter — Louisiana Mills ! In his own fer 
vently jDious youth he would as soon have yearned for the 
hand of the Paj)hian Venus as for that of Louisiana, dull 
of mind and keen of appetite, utterly earthly and unspirit- 
ual- in every sense — given to riches, and dress, and indo- 
lence. Yet all along, without a whisper of it to himself, 
much less to his own wife, he has set his heart upon his 
nephew being married to this lady of all the world. One 
of his first thoughts is that it will nov^ be quite possible 
for this alliance to be consummated ! Let us frankly ac- 
knowledge, and neither deny nor quarrel at, the eternal 
laws of the human heart. Noble, white-haired old Barzil- 
lai asked David nothing for himself whatever, but for Chim- 
ham every thing ! That morning, weeks ago, when his 
nephew, after a night of sleepless thinking, had announced 
to his uncle his intention of mounting his horse and riding 
out in search of a field of labor farther out upon the fron- 
tier ! Hard work the uncle had to dissuade him from his 
plan. He was weary even of the short period of compara- 


138 


The ^N’ew Timothy. 


tive idleness under his uncle’s roof. After long years of 
training and arming he was ready, and yearned for the 
fight. Mr. Wall senior had sent him out to General Li- 
kens partly to keep him occupied until the something ar- 
rived, he hardly knew what. A dim something that the 
uncle expected confidently, and therefore prayed for fer- 
vently. That unknown something he found in the letter 
the instant he read it. 

“ Yes, Charles, your way is clear to visit this church,” 
was his decision, all his noble face glowing with pride in 
his nephew, and cordial assurance of his future career, his 
eyes not unmoistened with emotion as he spoke. “ I’ll tell 
you,” he continued ; “ we will call a family council uj)on 
the spot. See if all do not agree with me.” 

And so Mrs. Wall had to come in with her knitting, and 
Laura must be instantly sent for at the neighbor’s with 
whose sick child she had been sitting up all night. John 
was deeply engaged, in a check apron and rolled-up sleeves, 
in some mystery of flour and eggs and sug,ar in the pan- 
try, but come in she must. It was a critical point in the 
mystery, too ; but whether it “ fell ” or “ rose ” or exploded 
was one to him — come in she must, on the spot. 

“Do let the child stay, Mr. Wall,” said the wife, as she 
accompanied her impetuous husband to his study in the 
yard. 

“ No, Mary,” he says, in his loud, strong tones. “We 
can’t do without John. I do believe she has got more 
clear, strong sense than any of us !” 

He did not intend that young lady to hear this remark, 
but he did not care particularly if she did. He never said 
any thing which he would be unwilling for the world to 
hear. And John did hear him as she scraped the paste 
from her fingers in the pantry. She had a vague feeling 
of any thing rather than pleasure in regard to the subject 


The Family Council. 


139 


to be decided in the family council — an almost sickening 
feeling she could not account for. She regretted that she 
happened to be at home. But there was no help for it 
now. She would say as little as possible upon the matter, 
whatever it was. And so the family assembled in the lit- 
tle study. Mrs. Wall wished to stand. “ It will take but 
a moment, I suppose. What is it ?” she said. 

‘‘ ^N'o, sit down, Mary,” the husband insisted. 

“ What is it, Charles ?” inquired his aunt, seating herself 
on the edge of the lounge, and knitting for dear life. 

‘‘No, not till Laura comes,” says the husband, anxious 
for a full and solemn council — not a bit the less so because 
the decision of that council was already fully made up in 
his own mind. John looks over the books in the case, her 
sense of something unpleasant growing rapidly upon her. 

At last Laura appears, and in a hurry. 

“ Dear me !” she says, at the door of the study. “ What 
is it ? Any one sick ? Have the calves been in the gar- 
den last night ? Don’t tell me any thing has been at my 
dahlias !” 

Her father leads her in, shuts the door, requests atten- 
tion, reads the letter, explains all the circumstances of the 
case. But long before he has come to a close, and to get 
the opinion of his council, he has given his own most de- 
cidedly that it is a very desirable position in every respect 
— that there can be no possible objection to Charles ac- 
cepting the invitation. 

“ But let us have your opinion,” he says at last. “ Mary, 
my dear, you first.” 

“ I can not see how it is possible to get Charles’s things 
ready in time,” says that lady, knitting thoughtfully as 
she runs over his wardrobe in her mind. 

“Very well,” says her husband, cheerfully. “Now, 
Laura, your opinion. What is it ?” 


140 


The New Timothy. 


Oh, of course,” she replies, and, “ Oh, (^harles, while 1 
think of it, don’t forget to send me a good assortment of 
bulbous roots. Pack them in moss, and they can come by 
mail. You could find some cuttings, too, if you were to 
inquire in the city, only you are certain to forget it.” 

“Very well,” says Mr. Wall, senior, still more cheerfully. 
‘‘ Now, John, what is your notion ? Out with it, child !” 

‘‘Please excuse me this time, Mr. Wall. I know so lit- 
tle about such things — ” 

“No; speak out what you do know, child,” he says. 

“ I am sorry,” she says, hesitating a little. “ You wish 
me to speak plainly. I don’t know any thing. I can only 
tell you what I fed about it. But I can’t tell you v^hy I 
feel as I do. So what I would say is not worth hearing.” 

“But what is it, John?” says Mr. Wall, not quite so 
cheerfully, while Charles listens as if to the voice of some- 
thing rather within him than without him. “ Tell us what 
you feel, child. We’ll let it go just for what it is worth.” 

In the moment all the very much Mrs. General Likens 
had told her in reference to that part of Mr. Merkes’s ex- 
perience flashed upon her. 

“You know, child,” Mrs. General Likens had said, “he’s 
had an awful time of it a candidating ; visiting churches 
an’ preachin’ before them, to let them see how they like 
him or don’t like him. In my opinion it’s as bad as stand- 
ing a hand up on a block for sale. How they like his voice, 
an’ his gestures, an’ his manner of prayin’ an’ readin’; 
whether he’s too flowery for the old or too dry for the 
young, an’ all that. Of course he couldn’t do his best 
preachin’ under these circumstances — could you ? An’ he 
imaginin’ all along he saw contempt in one face in the con- 
gregation, an’ laughin’ at some mistake he’d made in an- 
other. Him a meetin’ half a dozen other candidates on the 
spot, an’ all preachin’ against each other for dear life, per* 


Clerical Candidating. 


141 


haps. An’ the bein’ heard, an’ criticised, an’ rejected ; and 
that over an’ over again. It’s enough to kill his very heart 
like, cheapen him in his own esteem, cripple him for life. 
I know it’s the custom in all the churches ; that the best 
preachers in the land all do it; an’ I don’t know any way 
preachers are to be settled but that ; yet I know one thing 
mighty ^vell, an’ that is, my James should have died first ! 
It w'as my prayer from his birth he might be a preacher. 
If he had been, an’ it had been the Lord’s will, I would 
have given him up for a missionary to go to Siam-Pooter, 
or w^hatever it is, willingly ; but not to go ’round with a 
pair of saddle-bags a-candidating ! Too much study and 
too little exercise at the Seminary thei’e in preparin’ for the 
ministry, steady starvation after enterin’ it, it is enough to 
sour Mr. Merkes. Araminty Allen can’t make that allow- 
ance for him that I can, but when you come to add to all 
that, his trials and troubles carididating ’round among the 
churches, I don’t blame him a bit if he is as cross and bit- 
ter an’ gloomy an’ cold as — between us — goodness know^s 
he certainly is. What that man has gone through with 
would have ruined the temper of the Beloved Disciple, 
even if it is wicked to say so !” 

But John whispers no syllable of all this. 

. “ Well, Mr. Wall,” says John, looking up with her clear, 
calm eyes and truthful brow, “I have a feeling that he 
ought not to go — at least, had better not settle there.” 

“ But why^ child ?” asks Mr. Wall the elder, swiftly. 

“My opinion is not worth much,” she continues more 
firmly and seriously ; “ but I was in favor of his taking 
that school he once spoke of ; and when that was aban* 
doned, I was so anxious he should go on that missionary 
trip West, I suppose it prejudices me against this plan. 
You know, Mr. Wall,” she says a little archly, “you did 
not call a council about those other plans.” 


142 


The New Timothy. 


While she is speaking one of the family is dimly con- 
cious, as he looks upon her, of the stirring within him of a 
singular emotion, not entirely new in his bosom, but never 
so well defined as now — not perfectly defined as yet — far 
from it. “ Singularly lovely,” he murmurs to himself; 
“ but so different from Louisiana !” 

“ What a curious girl you are, John !” says the caller of 
the council ; but he is aware also of a curious echo, too, to 
what she has said in his own bosom. 

“ I got it from you,” says J ohn more boldly. “ That day 
you were talking to Mr. Bowles in the parlor, you told 
him a young minister ought to spend several years in a 
comparatively obscure position before occupying a larger. 
You explained how he would thus get a practical knowl- 
edge of religion and men, which would make a substantial 
and lasting pastor of him afterwards. You told him it 
would be a good thing for him to spend a few years, even 
in teaching — it would deepen and enlarge his mind. That 
the eight or ten years you had spent in an obscure coun- 
try charge before you took a city church was of great ben- 
efit to you. And then, I remember, you told him of prom- 
ising young ministers who had gone from the Seminary 
into city pulpits who had failed to sustain themselves, and 
had to sink back at last into a lower position doubly bitter 
to them. And you mentioned two or three you knew who 
had ruined their health entirely in their effort to do so. 
Did not Mr. Merkes begin his career with a city pulpit ?” 
asks John, in a lower voice. 

“ Yes,” says Mr. Wall the elder, not at all as cheerful as 
a few moments before ; “ I believe so. But, J ohn, we hope 
Charles is neither a Mr. Bowles nor a Mr. Merkes,” he con- 
tinued with a smile. 

“ May it not be because you see him with your loving 
eyes ?” says John to herself Yes, to a greater degree than 


Rev. Charles Wall, Senior. 


143 


even John knew did the noble and affectionate uncle see 
every thing relating to those he loved through a wrong 
medium because a rosy medium. Of himself he had an 
humble opinion, whenever he thought of himself at all, 
Avhich was rare enough. All his life his own wonderful suc- 
cess in his ministry had been to him a cause of unceasing as- 
tonishment — the more because his beginning was of the 
smallest and least promising in many respects. This as- 
tonishment was satisfied to him only by his unceasing re- 
membrance that it 7nust be — was — God himself, the Cause 
of it all ! And so his amazement changed and increased 
and glowed more warmly into a thankfulness and confi- 
dence in Him which bore him up as upon wings. 

“ But he’s last man I know to find out from about other 
folks,” Mrs. General Likens remarked one day, speaking 
of him. “ When it’s made his duty to speak out — that 
church trial we had out here, you remember. General — he 
says every thing plain, I tell you. Other times he talks 
easy enough about things^ but he won’t about people. You 
never hear any half hints about folks, any chilly-like run- 
ning down of other people, any sly questions about some- 
body which will oblige you to say something bad of them 
in reply from his lips. I’d jest as soon expect Apostle Paul 
to sit an’ babble an’ spit and gossip and whittle as him to 
do any thing small an’ mean. Something awful about 
that man — must be his pure goodness — like an angel. Only 
fault I know is he thinks too highly of other folks, special- 
ly those he’s most with. I suppose it is the shining of 
his hope an’ love on them colors them like to his eyes. 
One thing, it makes people on a strain to be what they 
know he thinks them to be — anywise, while they are any- 
where about himP 

Mrs. General Likens was correct. Mr. Wall senior loved 
Charles as if he had been his own son. He estimates him 


144 


The New Timothy. 


by the ample measure of his own heart, rather than by the 
smaller and colder and exacter measure of common sense. 
He really thinks more of him — is a thousand times more 
confident in the success of his nephew than he ever was of 
himself. And now John’s unwilling opinion comes upon 
him, and upon the rest of the council, like a cool but en- 
tirely bracing and wholesome breeze. But, you see, John 
had a Yankee father — a man of clear, strong, straightfor- 
ward, almost cold sense — Yankee that far. Well for her 
that her mother was the very soul of womanly sweetness 
and softness. 

“ Louisiana ! John !” rings the chime in the heart of 
Burleson. To have one girl in a man’s mind is bother 
enough, but two at the same time, it is awful, as more than 
Captain Macheath have found out. And such a contrary 
two ! With Burleson it is the conflict in his choice as be- 
tween moonlight and sunshine. Sunshine is coldly clear ; 
but oh ! the moonlight is so soft and intoxicating. Sun- 
shine is too wakeful — a man must stand up on his feet and 
think and act strong and straight out under it ; but under 
the yellow glory of the moon it is so dreamy through all 
the golden night one can lie at length and drift like a bub- 
ble down the slow, eddying flow of whatever befalls. “ I 
could be happy with Louisiana Mills, say, if I had never 
met with John,” he thinks ; “ but I have met with her, and 
she is to me a something of priceless value — infinite — I can 
not compute it. I dare not give her up from my possession 
forever ! But here is this Louisiana, so artless and beau- 
tiful and charming to the eye. I wish to goodness she had 
run off with her father’s overseer or something before I 
got back from college,” he says. “ I would be at peace 
then to get up on my feet like a man, and brace myself 
somehow, and have purpose in life and do noble deeds, and 
perhaps get to heaven at last. Oh bother !” 


The Result of the Council. *145 

One singular fact lay in this, that Burleson thought a 
vast deal the most of John in the mornings — made his 
calls upon her then, terribly to the derangement of her do- 
mestic duties sometimes. But, as John rose upon him with 
the morning sun, so she subsided in him with its setting. 
With the coming on of evening Louisiana rose, moon-like, 
above the horizon, in all her glory ; it was after day was 
done that his calls upon her were made, save one, and that 
was a failure, perhaps for that very reason. It is the con- 
flict between this sunshine and moonlight within him which 
makes such uneasy and uncertain twilight there. How- 
ever, all this in a parenthesis. 

And so all is tangle again in the council. It is hard to 
reason against stern Fact — eternal, undeniable Reason. 

‘‘But it is a plain Providence,” says Laura. 

“Yes, but Providence sometimes opens a wide gate be- 
fore us expressly that we may not enter it — to try us,” 
says the elder Mr. Wall thoughtfully. “ I passed just one 
such when I entered the ministry ; was glad ever after. 
And more than once.” 

“And I,” thinks Mrs. Wall over her knitting, “when I 
came so very near marrying that rich, dissipated young St. 
Clair. Dear me, how long ago it was !” 

“ When Mr. Merkes made me that offer,” thinks Laura, 
but angry at herself for thinking of it as an opening of 
any kipd at all. 

In the buggy coming back from General Likens’s, thinks 
John to herself, and blushes, as if he had certainly read 
her thought, as she lifts her eyes and sees that the nephew 
is looking at her. 

“ I will tell you what I have determined,” says Charles 
Wall at last. “ My mind is clear. I will go. But I will go 
to the city without the least hope, expectation, or desire 
to be called as pastor, or to accept the invitation if I am. 

10 


146 


The New Timothy. 


I want to see as much of all sorts of life as I well can be- 
fore settling down to work. I have seen the Likens neigh- 
borhood a little ; let me see city life a little too. I want 
to know, chiefly, a little more about myself. I haven’t the 
faintest idea,” he added, with a laugh, “ of what I am, ex- 
cept that 1 have awful forebodings !” 


Jacob Langdon, Esq. 


147 


Chapter XIV. 

Quite another Neighborhood than General Likens^s. 

HY is it that the young" minister assumes from the 



^ ^ very outset the relation he does to this Jacob Lang- 
don ? He is aware of it, he remonstrates with himself 
about it, he struggles manfully against it, but for the soul 
of him he can not help it ! The quicksilver in the tube 
might as well resist the cold that sinks it towards zero. 
Unlike the mercury, he does not indicate it in any way, 
but none the less does he feel from the first that wretched 
sense of personal inferiority to Jacob Langdon. And why ? 
in the name of logic and common-sense. Why ? Jacob 
Langdon is a man whomever got beyond a common-school 
education, and Wall is a thoroughly educated gentleman. 
Jacob Langdon is a moral man, perhaps, but Wall is much 
whiter from all stain than he. Jacob Langdon is a pro- 
fessor of religion, but he, in comparison to the young min- 
ister, has effected a standing, off the earth, only upon the 
first step leading into the temple, while the younger but 
more devoted Christian of the two has pressed his way 
long ago up those steps, and through the vestibule, and 
far on his way within the temple towards its Holy of Ho- 
lies. The only two things in which Jacob Langdon is su- 
perior to him is practical knowledge of life, and — wealth ; 
for it is Jacob Langdon of the well-known and immensely 
wealthy firm of Langdon, Burke, and Co. 

If there be a rich man whose handsome carriage drives 
by your door so often, and you, a poor man, be on the 


148 


The New Timothy. 


point of denying the fact of feeling inferior to said rich 
man, do not do it ! The feeling is wrong, but your denial 
of it, dear friend is worse. You are positively certain of 
the man’s great inferiority to yourself in very many re- 
spects. But at last, in spite of yourself, especially if he be 
very rich and you be quite poor, you have the general 
sense of his being, upon the Avhole, your superior. If you 
be poet or artist or minister yourself, and young, that 
which exalts him most above you is your sense of his 
unlimited superiority to yourself in practical intellect. 
Whatever else you do know, banking, prices, stocks, com- 
merce — in a word, the science of making money — is to you 
a vast knowledge, with the very alphabet of which you 
are unacquainted. In the art of sjDending money you feel 
yourself to be vastly before him — know infinitely better 
than he exactly what things to buy with his thousands, if 
you had them ; but as to accumulating those thousands 
you are a very babe at his feet. 

It was with a singular sense of being quite small and 
very young that Charles Wall enters the counting-house 
of Langdon, Burke, and Co., in the city. Mr. Langdon be- 
ing the officer of the city church who wrote the letter of 
invitation. 

‘‘ Mr. Langdon has stepped out ; take a seat — the morn- 
ing paper,” says the clerk on the high stool at the long 
mahogany desk behind the railing, hardly lifting his eyes 
from a heap of invoices before him. 

“ He knew by my letter that I would be in the city, and 
to see him about this hour, and yet he is out !” was the 
thought of Wall, as it would have been of Mr. Merkes in 
his place. Only Mr. Merkes would have nursed the 
thought with indignation, whereas Wall throttles and 
casts it out as soon as it is born. He seats himself with a 
“ Thank you ” on the black cushion of the nearest office- 


Meechant and Cleegyman. 


149 


chair, and takes the crisp morning paper that he may 
glance over the top of it around him. 

It is a noble office, twenty by forty feet at least ; the 
floor covered with cocoa-nut matting, the walls hung round 
with port-folios bearing in large letters upon their sides 
the names of all the leading ports of America and Europe. 
There are handsome paintings too of the celebrated clip- 
pers and steamships of the day. The three huge doors 
standing open upon the busy street ; the library 5f jour- 
nals and ledgers, each two feet long ; the glimpse of sev- 
eral lengthy tables in an inner room covered with different 
samples of cotton in brown paper parcels ; the vast iron 
house rather than safe in one corner ; the stout negro por- 
ter, apron on, coming in and going out ; the constant in- 
gress of clerks with long, thin books in their breast-pockets, 
who hold brief and cabalistic conversation with the clerk, 
wffio never even nods to them in coming or recognizes their 
leaving, but writes steadily on through it all ; every thing 
impresses the young minister wnth the fact that this office 
is quite a different place from his quiet apartment in the 
third story of the Seminar] so very high and dry above 
the bustling world. And he enjoys it wonderfully from 
the force of reaction, and has a deep respect for the clerk 
writing away at his desk. From the moment he had read 
the letter of invitation Hoppleton had dwindled into a 
much smaller place, and his uncle’s home had seemed rath- 
er dull than not. The instant he had stepped, valise in 
hand, on the train, at the end of the stage part of his trip 
from Hoppleton, he had caught the contagion of enterprise 
and energy. He respected the conductor collecting tickets, 
had a lurking admiration for the dirty stoker, considered 
the engineer a hero, rather underrates himself, in fact, in 
comparison with all the pushing throng. In strong contrast 
with the eddy in which he has lain, there is a grandeur in 


150 


The New Timothy. 


the torrent of practical life which exaggerates itself to him 
by the very contrast. 

And now this tall, thin, hazel-eyed man who comes in 
with such a swift step must be Mr. Jacob Langdon. He is 
rather disappointed. He had imagined him portly, white- 
haired, and with an overflow of gold watch-chain over 
a white waistcoat — never mind. He rises to greet and 
be greeted, but Mr. Langdon regards him just at that in- 
stant no more than the spittoon at his feet. 

‘‘Say twenty thousand two fifty, and I’ll do it,” he says, 
as he comes rapidly in without looking over his shoulder 
at the weazen, little, dried-up old man who follows upon 
his footsteps like his shadow. 

“ Suppose you would ! No. Twenty thousand five hun- 
dred,” replies that individual, in sharp, quick tones. 

“ Can’t do any thing with you, Ellis,” says Mr. Langdon, 
who has now reached the railed space, and, with hand 
thrust through the rails, is working the impatient fingers 
thereof under the nose of the clerk. “ Check, Jones, twen- 
ty thousand five hundred !” 

“Would endow a professor’s chair!” says Wall to him- 
self, with a rising respect for both the gentlemen. 

Mr. Ellis has the check, and without a word is gone. 
Mr. Langdon is hurrying out after him, when Mr. Wall 
rises and bows and catches his quick eye. 

’ “Ah, yes!” says the broker, understanding immediately. 
“Plow are you? Pleasant weather!” 

Mr. Wall shakes his extended hand. 

“ Cotton is it? or railway?” asks the broker, with a busi- 
ness smile. 

“ Something as interesting to you as either, I hope,” says 
the young minister, returning his smile, but feeling exceed- 
ingly uncertain whether his business will be really and 
truly as interesting to his new friend. Church and gospel 


Mr. Jones. 


151 


and preacher seem things so unreal and out of place in that 
busy spot. 

“ Very glad indeed to see you !” says the broker, becom- 
ing on the spot the church officer, when his visitor has ex- 
plained who he is. And there is a Sabbath change in his 
tones as he learns of his visitor exactly when he arrived, 
at what hotel he stopped, how he left his uncle — still stand- 
ing, however, and in a rapid manner. 

“Now,” says the cotton-broker, at last, “ it’s just twelve 
— we dine at four. Here are the papers, or look around 
dhe city a little. Only be here, if you please, say at twen- 
ty minutes to four, and I’ll show you the way out. Good- 
morning !” and he is gone into the maelstrom that circles 
past his front door. 

Mr. Merkes would have been greatly aggrieved at so 
curt a disposal of himself. Wall is conscious of a rising 
tendency in him of that kind, but crushes it on the spot in 
a new admiration of the energetic business man. He has 
a strong disposition himself to plunge into the current of 
commerce ; would like exceedingly some pressing call along 
the wffiarves and into the warehouses. After years of se- 
clusion there is a romance, a fascination in the rapid foot- 
steps, and quick speech, and talk of dollars, with a sense, 
too, of being himself quite an idler, altogether a child. 

It is a compliment to Wall, however, that Mr. Jones, the 
clerk, comes at this juncture from inside his cage, intro- 
duces himself, and shakes hands. Mr. Jones has a quill of 
blue ink behind one ear, a quill of red ink behind the other, 
another of black ink in his mouth. He removes this from 
his lips to say : 

“Very glad to make your acquaintance, sir. You look 
much younger than I expected to see. I knew your uncle 
well. Many a time have I heard — there’s the gun of the 
New York steamer coming in; hurry down, Peter — him 


152 


The New Timothy. 


preach. I don’t belong to the First Church myself. No-, 
some of us went out of it a year or so ago to begin a little 
enterprise in one of the neglected districts. Sunday-school 
in the upper room of an engine-house, you know ; preach- 
ing there at ten and at night. Take a seat, Captain Buff; 
ready to sail ? Papers all right.” 

And Mr. Jones has to go into his den again to serve the 
last arrival. But Mr. Wall has had opportunity to observe 
that Mr. Jones is not only a clerk, but a gentleman. 

He feels reassured, and with a word of adieu, which Mr. 
Jones had not the time to observe, he sallies forth into the 
tide without, until he finds himself near his hotel. 

“ Bill already settled, luggage carried off,” says the clerk 
at the hotel bar in answer to an inquiry. ‘‘ On an order 
from Jacob Langdon,” is the explanation. 

And so he guesses his way to the office of Langdon, 
Burke, and Co. again. Arrived there, he finds a somewhat 
shabby-looking gentleman standing at the desk in subdued 
conversation with Mr. Jones, who is writing steadily on 
none the less. 

A moment or two after Mr. Langdon comes in with a 
rapid step, and an “Ah, Mr. Wall, how are you by this 
time ?” In obedience, however, to a “ Mr. Langdon, a mo- 
ment, if you please !” from his clerk, Mr. Langdon retires 
with that clerk into the room wdth the long, unpainted cot- 
ton-tables. The clerk seems to have a good deal to say, 
and his principal only listens and nods. As they come out 
the clerk introduces his employer to the gentleman in 
somewdiat shabby clothes, who looks thin and nervous. 
There is a rapid conversation between these last, of which 
the young minister only catches the words, “ Wife and 
children — any thing on earth — great obligations — roll up 
my sleeves — any thing, sir, any thing ?” 

“ Ah, well ! at your service now, Mr. Wall. Suppose we 


Mk. Langdon at Home. 


153 


go,” says Mr. Langdon at last, and they leave the office, the 
cotton-broker keeping up a fragmentary conversation with 
the shabby gentleman, who accompanies them. In course 
of time they arrive at the doorway of a huge warehouse- 
like establishment. 

“Be so kind as to wait for me a moment,” says the bro- 
ker to his guest, and disappears with his other companion 
inside. 

“ Had to take you out of your way,” says Mr. Langdon, 
emerging, as he hurries along with Mr. Wall. “ Jones 
has always something of the sort on hand. You’d hardly 
believe it, that person who came with us was president of 
a railroad once — not so long ago either. Broken to pieces. 
Came out here to find business. Places ? ‘ I am willing 
to do any thing,’ he says, ‘ to feed my family : if it’s only 
employment for a few days ; it is better than none at all.’ 
Yhad no place for him, so I brought him here. He’ll have 
to work hard enough from dawn till dark. But he’ll get 
his bread.” 

“ Did you find any difficulty in securing him a place ?” 
asks the young minister, as they hurry along, deeply inter- 
ested. 

“A great deal, only the head of that establishment 
couldn’t refuse, under the circumstances. It is not three 
years ago he came to me in a worse fix than this man. I 
got him in there then. Of course, he is willing to help any 
other poor fellow.” 

“ I must say, Mr. Langdon,” says his companion, after a 
pause, “ I envy you the opportunity you have of doing such 
a deed.” 

“ Yes ; it is more Jones than myself. People can do any 
thing with him^ and he can do any thing he pleases with 
me. But here we are ; walk in.” 

The young minister looks up and sees that they are in 


154 


The New Timothy. 


front of a noble mansion with cast iron verandah for both 
stories, handsome plot in front with tesselated pavement 
leading from the gate, bordered with conch-shells and stone 
vases. The master of the house rang at the gate as he en- 
tered, and now the front door opens at his touch. 

“ Mistress in ?” he inquires of the white-aproned colored 
man that opens the door. 

“ Just in, sir,” is the reply. 

‘‘ Dinner, then, soon as you please,” says Mr. Langdon, 
showing his guest into the parlor and himself passing on 
up stairs to wash and tell his wife. 

Dinner comes. It is all a dinner could be, and Mr. Wall 
partakes of it with a feeling of ease and enjoyment, as if 
he had been out on a camping excursion during the last 
few years, but had got home again. Mr. Merkes would 
have been estimating the cost, and blaming the extrava- 
gance, and adding another room to his overcramped house 
from the proceeds of the superb caster before him. His 
prevailing feeling would have been, “There is an awful 
wrong somewhere, that you have all these things and I 
don’t. Never mind. You must have a bitter sorrow some- 
where. Perhaps you have a drunken son down town, or 
an idiot child up stairs, or something. Perhaps you’ll break 
yet — it often happens.” And so would Mr. Merkes console 
himself as he murmured steadily on — like a rivulet worried 
to death with perpetual pebbles in its path — against God. 

Not so with Wall ; he acknowledged to himself a keen 
enjoyment of the wealth of his host — but it is as if it is all 
his own. He feels entirely at home, and therefore seems 
so. He has a pleasant word for the children and a happy 
reply for his host, and, what a woman values more than 
diamonds or cashmeres, a deferential attention to every 
syllable of Mrs. Langdon. And he says very little himself 
at last, and is entirely at his ease. 


Prepaeation for Preaching. 


155 


“We will be glad if you will make out your list of 
hymns for to-morrow this afternoon,” says Mr. Langdon, as 
he shows his guest up stairs into his room. 

In looking forward to the service the young minister ex- 
pected to be quite nervous on that eventful Sabbath morn- 
ing ; he had even hopes that it would prove a rainy Sab- 
bath. Yet he was only glad when he awoke the next 
morning and found the day up before him bright and glad. 
He had anticipated having all the mixed and miserable 
feelings of one about making his appearance in the pulpit 
as a candidate on exhibition, bothered to put on the best 
manner there. But even his fears of being nervous were 
all forgotten as he dressed and sat down at the window to 
his morning devotions. He is not there as a candidate for 
any thing whatever; merely there in Heaven’s Providence 
to preach, as he had been on his visit to Mr. Merkes. All 
he aims at is simply to preach. All he prays for is that he 
may do this to the profit of those that may hear, few or 
many. John’s opinion at the family council had been as a 
soft, cool hand laid upon a fevered brow. He felt quietly 
ready for the morning service even by breakfast. So much 
so that, with his sermon safely in his head and heart instead 
of his breast-pocket, he requested to accompany Mr. Lang- 
don to the Sabbath-school. There was a simple nature in 
the young minister, a perfect ease of manner, that would 
have put Mr. Langdon out a little. “ Going to preach in 
our pulpit, and so cool about it !” he would have thought, 
with some displeasure at his young guest, if that guest had 
not seemed so entirely yet quietly at home. Was it intel- 
lect and culture beginning to weigh its own against wealth ? 
Or was it, rather, simple piety getting the mastery of cir- 
cumstances, as it inherently will, though those circum- 
stances towered at first like Alps against it ? Not that he 
is in the least superior to any body else. Only he has, 


156 


The New Timothy. 


somehow, become aware of all the much that is wrong in 
him, and has for the moment got his heel upon that worse 
self! 

And the Sabbath-school prepared him to preach. He is 
beginning of late to find a deal of interest in the clear 
eyes of little children, a grace in the motion of their hands, 
and a wisdom in their prattle he never remarked before. 
His attention has been drawn towards them by what lie 
has heard of Mr. Merkes’s entire neglect of them, and his 
association with John has in some mysterious way ripened 
his heart towards the young as well as towards every 
thing else. They wish him to deliver an address to the 
children ; but he pleasantly declines, and talks to the chil- 
dren instead, imparting to them all the profit and twenty 
times the pleasure during the ten minutes he holds their 
bright eyes in his than during the formal delivery of an 
hour’s set address. And then their singing too ! Sweeter 
music this world knows not of than the voices of children 

When he at last finds himself in the pulpit — itself 
almost as large as Mr. Merkes’s church — he is glad that 
he had selected for the occasion the sermon he had. Ev^- 
ery minister prepares two sorts of sermons. One kind is 
of the genus commonly known as “ a splendid discourse.” 
This is a sermon based on some striking text, filled with 
apt quotations from the poets, adorned with vivid illustra- 
tions, beautified with rhetorical curves and flourishes. The 
aim of such a sermon is to astonish the audience with some 
quaint interpretation of Scripture never before dreamed of 
by mortal man ; or to thrill by its sublime flight ; or to 
move and melt by its pathos ; or to convince by its irre- 
sistible reasoning; or to delight by its very audacity. 
The object of this genus of sermon, in a word, is effect, im- 
mediate effect, and the success of the same is measured by 
the degree of its effect. To this end the sermon is re writ- 


Two Kinds of Sermon. 


157 


ten with a polishing of the marble worthy of Isocrates, 
who spent thirty-six years of steady rewriting upon his 
one oration. It is such a venture, that no experienced 
minister launches himself from his pulpit cushion upon a 
splendid discourse unless he be very certain that the size 
of his congregation, the state of the weather, and his own 
exact measure of health and mood will warrant the at- 
tempt. Even then it is a risk. A bird flying in at the 
church window, a sudden shower or storm coming up, a 
dog yelping in the aisle, a child crying in a pew, will ruin 
the success of the most effective of this style of sermon. 

Now Mr. Wall, too, had more than one splendid dis- 
course among his sermons. They were the gems of his 
collection to him when he first arrived in Hoppleton. 
Somehow he had distrusted them since. And it is not a 
splendid discourse he now has determined to preach. It 
is one of the other genus of sermons, the faithful exposi- 
tion of a text ; poetry, vivid illustration, rhetoric, novelty, 
sublimity, pathos, logic, audacity, all Corinthianism of the 
sort left out, or breaking their way in by sheer force, and 
the discourse depending upon its plain, direct meaning for 
its effect. 

The sumptuous church holds a still more sumptuous 
congregation ; the organ peals in full tone : the choir have 
not one common-metre hymn to drag them down to the 
people in the pews below, and sing with free voices sky- 
ward. The young preacher preaches his sermon without 
let or hindrance, informing the hearers, to the best of his 
ability and with all his heart, of the meaning of God their 
Saviour in the text. A prayer, a hymn, the benediction, 
and this candidate for the vacant pulpit has settled his 
fate as far as that church is concerned forever. 


158 


The New Timothy. 


Chaptee XV. 

Good Mr. Ramspy has his Views. 

H OPPLETON remarks one day: ‘‘So that young Mr. 
Wall has got hack from the city.” 

“ Oh yes, of course !” poor Issells growls to his wife in 
comment thereon, as he disrobes himself for bed. “ Com- 
mon people like me must stay at home and slave. No vis- 
iting about among cities for them. Of course! Working 
their fingers to the bone, hardly making a miserable living 
at that. But preachers ? Of course ! They are the lords 
of the land, ten-dollar-a-yard broadcloth, travelling to cities, 
eat fine dinners, get tremendous salaries of thousands of 
dollars, and all. Religion ? Yes, a blessed thing, as they 
call it, to them, no doubt ! Of course !” 

Fifty times a day come the words from Issells’s mouth, 
“Of course!” Very much like poor Mr. Merkes, he has 
established it as the law of things that he is to be wrong- 
ed, while all the rest of men are to be favored. If his iron 
burns him, his shears grow dull, a customer grumbles, a 
shutter creaks, his wife comj)lains, his stove smokes, rule 
or chalk are not at hand when wanted, whatever wrong 
he endures, forever being wronged, it comes to his lips in- 
stantly, “ Of course !” To injure him is the natural and in- 
variable order of the universe ! If lightning were to strike 
through his window, and harm him only to the extent of 
melting his lump of wax, he would have said, “ Of course !” 
To be cruelly injured in some way all the time is Nature’s 
first law in reference to him! 


At Appleton Again. 


159 


Almost before Mr. Ramsey knows that he is back from 
the city Charles is down at the old gentleman’s shoe-store 
to see him. He has learned — an easy lesson — to love the 
good old man, to take deep sympathy in his labors for 
drunken Isham, the livery-stable keeper, and in his persist- 
ent assaults upon the unbelief, with the hardening of nigh 
two thousand years in it, of Josephs the Jew. And so he 
fairly glows with enthusiasm as he tells Mr. Ramsey his 
city experiences, the old gentleman as interested as he. 

As to Edward Burleson, so intimate for years, they 
have, somehow, drifted apart of late — drifting farther 
apart every day. Their aims in life are so unlike. Rath- 
er, while Wall is entering with enthusiasm upon his pro- 
fession, Burleson seems caught in an eddy of the current 
at the outset ; not a particle of enthusiasm, sneering at all 
idea of it, circling passively round and round, as he him- 
self languidly acknowledges it, a bubble, a straw — neither 
making, nor having the least intention, or even desire, to 
make any effort in any direction. Nor is it of any use to 
attempt arousing any ambition in him. 

“ Edward, I have set my heart upon your becoming a 
thoroughly competent lawyer,” his father had said to him 
one day in the bank. “ I have large tracts of lands in the 
West. The titles to some of these are in a complicated 
condition — some of the lands are actually in litigation. 
Besides, the bank has continual matter outstanding need- 
ing the attention of a lawyer, and of a good lawyer at 
that. I can throw a large practice, too, from others into 
your hands. If you wish to gratify me you will go to 
work with a will.” 

It was a great deal for the bank j)resident to say. A 
man of few words, he meant every syllable of it. The re- 
lation between them was rather that between two gentle- 
men of the same standing in society than of father and 


160 


The New Timothy. 


son. Any thing like tenderness of feeling — any manifes- 
tation of it, at least — was foreign to the nature of either. 
A good deal of cast iron and cold steel is essential to the 
constitution of a first-class business-man. And the father 
had grown, in conducting his affairs, sternly accurate in 
his very emotions. There is something in numerals, in 
the process of calculation, extremely frosty and petrifying 
to a man. The faculty of a college always give the first 
honor of a graduating class to the best mathematician. 
Very wisely ; he is the man, in most colleges, who delivers 
the Latin or Greek salutatory on Commencement-day ; he 
attains the first honor, but the process thereto freezes him 
from the very centre of his heart till his color has fled, his 
eyes become glassy, his lips blue — a dead language is the 
only one -for him to express himself in. It is Mr. Burle- 
son’s piety which keeps his heart warm. He is deeiffy 
and sincerely, because understandingly, pious ; and it is 
just this piety, burning an unextinguished and inextin- 
guishable fire at the centre of the man, which arrests and 
keeps back the process of congealment. Hence the im- 
portance he justly attaches to his accurate family worship, 
morning and night ; to his exact attendance on the W ed- 
nesday night prayer-meeting, which he prizes as a sort of 
Sabbath hour in the centre of the week; to the Sabbath- 
day itself These he prizes as the Arctic traveller does 
the seasons of food and fire by which alone life is main- 
tained amidst the atmosphere and the ice-bergs of the 
pole, for their calculable, practical use. Now Edward has 
all the business faculty of his father, and more. He has 
actual talent. And he has naturally a larger heart, too, 
than his father. Who does not know that it is therein 
that the mainspring of a man is coiled ? And just in his 
heart is the defect, the lack, which ruins the whole man. 

While his father speaks to him now, standing at his 


The Burlesons, Father and Son. 161 

desk, Ills back to bis son, and pausing not a moment, ap- 
parently, from writing as he speaks, that son is sitting idly 
before the fire, smoking languidly, a newspaper upon his 
knee. A cigar his father abhorred as something altogeth- 
er unbusiness-like. Edward Burleson smoked none the 
less — rather the more — on this account. Not that he was 
particularly fond of smoking. He smoked listlessly, just 
when it came to hand — has no settled thought or feeling 
even in regard to that. He would not even dislike Josiah 
Evers as he does if it required any exertion to do so. He 
now considers his father’s remark very much as if Bug 
had made it instead. 

“ I never knew a lawyer in my life,” he replies at last, 
speaking as much to himself as to his father, “ who was not 
a scoundrel. The better lawyer he is, so much the more 
desperate a villain. To sell one’s intellect and reading to 
the highest bidder — one’s power to make people laugh 
and to make people cry to the scamp that can pay most 
money for it ! Dirty work ! Humph ! one’s power of sar- 
casm, one’s ability to quote the poets, for sale at so much ! 
To keep one’s conscience, too, on hire, as that drunken 
Isham down there at the livery-stable does a horse, — that 
any man, gentleman or blackleg, so he has the money, can 
mount and ride through dust or mire in whatever direc- 
tion he pleases. Thank you, not if I can help it ; at least 
not till I must!"''' 

‘‘ You do not mean what you say. We will speak about 
it again,” is all the reply the elder Burleson, after quite a 
pause, makes to this, and writes steadily on, his son resum- 
ing as coolly cigar and newspaper. 

And so it was when he conversed with his old college 
friend instead. Whatever was the topic, it was becoming 
the habit of his life to indulge only in disparagement, ca- 
villing, contempt. “Although I don’t care a cent how it 

11 


162 


The New Timothy. 


is, or, in fact, what it is,” was his usual conclusion. And 
the young minister did care decidedly in regard to every 
thing — was full of plan and purpose — hopeful and active: 
would not have died for a great deal. 

“ You can never do me a greater kindness, one for which 
I will be more thankful, than to tell me of any defect I 
have as a minister or as a man,” he said, being so young, 
to Burleson one night during a long conversation. “ My 
heart is set upon succeeding in my profession. I am eager 
to know how to do so — what to correct. I’ll tell you,” he 
continued, warmly, to Burleson. “We’ll make a bargain. 
Only tell me frankly every thing you see wrong in me — 
even in the least — and I wdll do the same for you. It will 
be like the wrestlers and boxers in the Olympian games : 
don’t spare me, and I won’t spare you ; and so we will 
mutually develop each other into larger men.” 

“ Many thinks — I believe not,” replied Burleson, coldly. 
“ I know my faults already a great deal better than you 
do. But then I have no intention of correcting them. 
Succeed ? I don’t want to succeed. Why should I ?” 

And so it was ; the friends seemed changing their iden- 
tity. The removal of Wall from the Seminary was as the 
bringing a plant out of a close room into the sunshine and 
the open air. He had risen into a newer and larger, a 
more genial and healthful life from the first. He had in- 
creased in stature and weight, in color and cheerfulness 
and energy. He was, under the influence of a powerful 
motive within, steadily assimilating himself and adapting 
himself to the living, breathing world in which lay his life’s 
work. A very unfinished man yet was the Rev. Charles 
Wall, Junior. 

We humbly entreat you, dear reader, do not regard Mr. 
Ramsey, to whom we return for a moment, as a bore. His 
species on earth are too few to be esteemed such — interest- 


Mr. Ramsey’s Opinions. 


163 


ing rarities rather. Besides, the angels hovering over him 
may have looked at each other occasionally with a smile at 
some of his ways ; but that they are far more interested in 
just such than over many a king or queen, to say nothing 
of a blood- and-thunder hero roaring over the stage of life, 
I have no more doubt than I have of my own existence or 
of theirs. 

‘‘Ah ! back again ? Glad to see you !” says Mr. Ramsey 
to Charles, as he enters his store that afternoon. “How 
you have improved during your trip ! If you go on you’ll 
soon be your uncle over again. You had such a squinch- 
ed-up look when you first came home I almost despaired 
of you.” 

“You must not say any thing against the Seminary, 
Mr. Ramsey,” says Wall, radiant with health and high 
spirits. “ It has been the training-school of thousands, who 
owe all they have done in the world, under God, to it. 
Suppose the students occasionally overstudy themselves 
there, get into monastic habits, have a touch of the dys- 
pepsia — these are small evils to the immense advantages 
they derive. Even these they soon rub off in mingling af- 
terwards with the world. And, besides, these objections 
to seminary life are being removed by new arrangements — 
gymnasiums and the like.” 

“ I don’t know,” says old Mr. Ramsey, shaking his head 
as he leans with his back against the counter. “ I am old- 
fashioned in my notions, I dare say ; but the good old plan 
of having the candidates study under actual pastors, en- 
gaging actively in labor under them, such as visiting the 
sick, holding prayer-meetings around — things of that kind. 
With the exception of your uncle, if there’s a minister of 
our denomination that isn’t more or less an invalid, I don” 
know him. However, I won’t insist. They are even get- 
ting to wear their beards now ! Ah, well ! It may be 


164 


The New Timothy. 


right. But tell me something about the city and all you 
saw.” 

“I am letting mine grow,” said Wall, coloring a little 
at the allusion to his bearded face, “ to secure my throat 
from bronchitis. It is God that planted it, you know, Mr. 
Ramsey.” In fact, any one of his old professors in the 
Seminary would have been obliged to bring down his spec- 
tacles from forehead to nose, and to have looked long and 
carefully through them even at that, to have recognized 
their thin, pale-faced, closely-shaven graduate in the 
bronzed, bearded, and — getting to be — burly youth who 
now stands full of life and ardor before Mr. Ramsey. “ I 
thought you would like to hear about the city,” says Wall, 
seating himself on the low sofa upon which customers sat 
to try on shoes, “ and I came down as soon as I could get 
away from home. And now I hardly know where to be- 
gin.” 

“Well,” says Mr. Ramsey, “ how did you like the mem- 
bers of the church ?” 

“ I hardly know how to answer,” says his companion. 
“ To see them — the men, I mean — in their offices and stores, 
along the wharves and streets, ordering their clerks and 
porters about, they seem to a stranger — the officers of the 
church and all — to be as worldly-minded, as shrewd in a 
trade, as eager and as earthly, as furious in the race for 
riches as any body. No time for religious talk, or even 
thought, among bales and boxes, hogsheads and drays, 
steamers coming in and going out. It had a depressing 
influence on me at first. How is it possible, I thought, for 
a man to keep the flame of religion alive in his heart amidst 
this deluge of worldliness ? How can an Enoch, even, re- 
ally walk with God, mingled so all the week in this crowd 
and crush and hurly-burly of men ?” 

“ No, you are wroncr !” said the elder Christian, gravely. 


Muscular CnEisTiAiaTY. 


165 


“ Piety is not as weakly a thing as that. It isn’t a taper- 
flame liable to be puffed out by any chance breeze. It is a 
living principle — when it exists at all — infinitely stronger 
than any thing else. It is put by God in a man’s bosom a 
real thing, a hearty thing, a strong thing — a vast deal 
stronger than any thing else it meets along the streets or 
any where else ! Provided a man is in his duty,” says Mr. 
Ramsey, with warmth, standing up from the counter as he 
speaks. “ In the morning let him realize all the perils of 
the day before him, with hearty distrust of himself ; let him 
then ask the Good Spirit to be in him in all His power all 
day; and then let him go along the path God has given 
him with a bold front and a firm foot, whether it leads 
through the thick of a crowd or of a battle. Watch and 
pray always, of course; but for a man to creep out of his 
house fearfully in the morning, and go timidly, as if walk- 
ing on eggs, all day, slow and trembling, hardly daring to 
look around, or to open his mouth, or to lift his hand, or to 
raise his foot — what is it ?” says Mr. Ramsey, warmly. 
“It isn’t distrust of himself so much as it’s distrust of God’s 
Spirit in a man to help him. A man can’t distrust himself 
too much, but he can’t trust God in him too much, so that 
he clings to God — sees that he does nothing to offend Him. 
I am an old man myself— a poor, feeble one — but I do like 
to see a manly piety, a healthful, fearless piety, going on 
its great errand like the sunshine everywhere — into ships 
and steamboats, grog-shops, gambling-houses, highways, 
hedges — everywhere after people. General Likens and I 
had a long talk over it once. Bob Long was there too, 
and gave us his views. Somehow preachers, some of the 
best Christians too, ain’t manly enough ! Bob said : ‘ Too 
womanish, creeping, fearful like ! We ain’t ashamed of 
George Washington. Them Meggar boys are bold as brass 
for Andrew Jackson. If we were only as open and bold 


166 


The New Timothy. 


everywhere for Christ now ! He’s a living man, you know, 
our real President, now and forever !’ I never thought of 
it so till then. We Christians live too much inside our 
own little circle, afraid almost to peep over our church-pale ; 
we must go out more — go out — abroad — everywhere ! 
I don’t care if it’s up to the highest place among men; 
if a heart beats there, there we must climb to carry that 
heart the Gospel. And I don’t care if it is the deepest and 
dirtiest ditch in the world, down at the bottom, under the 
mud and filth, if there’s a soul there to be saved, there’s 
our business to be. I don’t mean ministers, I mean laymen 
too — all of us ! — People have a way of saying — ^I’ve even 
heard some of our preachers say it — that our particular de- 
nomination ain’t adapted,” Mr. Ramsey broke out again, 
after a few minutes’ silence, with even vehemence, “ to cer- 
tain classes. This denomination, that, and the other, are 
best suited to the masses. We are adapted to the edu- 
cated, the thinking. Just so far as our church is not 
adapted to any sinner, anywhere, our church is not a Gos- 
pel church. Go ye into all the world ! Preach the Gospel 

to every creature ! May our particular church perish” 

“ from off the earth !” the younger continued where 

the older Christian hesitated — “ if it is not adapted, as well 
as any, to convert the world ! and it is adapted, most of 
all !” Mr. Wall adds with enthusiasm. 

And faithfully did Mr. Ramsey practise what he preach- 
ed. Did angels smile or did they weep to see the persist- 
ent way in which he argued, for instance, and plead and 
wept even, for and with Josephs, the Jew clothes-seller 
next door ? To the Hebrew it was less than the buzzing 
of a fiy. Were it possible, Josephs would have unhesitat- 
ingly sold the Saviour over again ; not a fibre in him con- 
scious of any sensation beyond that involved in selling his 
very inferior goods at his very superior prices. And Mr. 


Business and Piety. 


167 


Ramsey knew it all, but clung to Josephs still. The 
Saviour was of Josephs’s very race; he could not forget 
that. 

Young Mr. Wall had often conversed with Mr. Ramsey. 
He well knew Mr. Ramsey’s favorite theme ; he had led 
the conversation expressly to draw him out. In fact, the 
new healthfulness and compass and energy of his religious 
ideas were owing only less to Mr. Ramsey, John, and the 
rest, on the one side, than to Mr. Merkes on the other. 

Now here is a man, said Wall to himself, as he sat on 
the sofa, looking up at his friend, who is really nothing but 
a weakly, aged keeper of a little shoe-store in a village. 
But see how his religion elevates and expands and ani- 
mates him ! What a glorious religion it is which gives, 
even to the humblest, such powerful motives and lofty 
aims and sublime views ! Even in this frail old man one 
can detect the folded wings and the infinite ardor of the 
future angel. And Burleson, naturally so far grander than 
he in body, intellect, heart, this moment, in comparison 
with him, wiggles a tadpole in a mud-pond an inch across ! 

But Mr. Ramsey gives his young friend no time for rev- 
erie ; he wants to know more about the city. 

“ Only,” he says, “ never think there’s any thing in busi- 
ness necessarily hostile, at least certainly ruinous, to a 
man’s religion. You understand me : every thing in this 
world is dead set against that, of course. What I am try- 
ing to say is that the religion in a man may be, can be, must 
be, an overmatch for the whole world, our own wicked 
hearts, the evil one himself! Our wicked heart ? the 
Spirit lives in it constantly to keep it down. Satan? 
‘ Thou shalt tread upon the lion and adder : the young lion 
and the dragon shalt thou trample under foot,’ says Scrip- 
ture. The world ? ‘ Whosoever is born of God overcometh 
the world !’ No,” continued Mr. Ramsey, warmly. “In 


168 


The New Timothy. 


these last days, when all the world is to be saved by 
Christian people, there’s no earthly use for feeble, creeping, 
whimpering Christians, everlastingly limping along, talk- 
ing about, thinking about, working after, praying about 
nothing else but their own miserable ailments, body and 
soul. That might do in old times. What is wanted now 
>is large, strong men, forgetting themselves and working 
for God — Luthers, Knoxes, Wesleys, and the like !” 

But good Mr. Ramsey is a little ashamed of having so 
engrossed the conversation. On every other theme he is 
as mute as a mouse. And he has no more to say except 
to draw out Charles in regard to the city. 

It seems to me, that gentleman pauses long enough to 
say to himself. General Likens, even his wife too, Mr. Long, 
John — all sound upon much the same key. My uncle? 
Yes, therein lies the explanation. 

And so Charles proceeds to tell of the teas he assisted to 
drink while in the city, of the dinners he was invited to, 
of the luxury and wealth and all that. And then he tells 
of the Parsonage. In passing that stately structure one 
day with Mr. Jacob Langdon that gentleman had, in a 
purely incidental way, proposed that they should look in 
a moment. By a singular coincidence, too, Mr. Langdon 
happened to have all the keys of the edifice in his pockets. 
So they ascended the steps of brown stone, entered the 
front-door into the hall paved with encaustic tiles, and fur- 
nished with a hat-stand which was itself a wonder of art. 
From thence they visited the basement, with its kitchen 
so admirably furnished, and servants’ chambers considera- 
bly larger and finer than Wall’s room in the Seminary. 
All the little arrangements, too, for wood and water and 
laundry, were kindly explained by Mr. Langdon. Then 
they must visit the neat brick stable. “ Ah ! yes, that is 
the pastor’s carriage,” Mr. Langdon explains of an exceed- 


A Model Pastorage. 


169 


iiigly neat vehicle therein. “ The horses are at the livery- 
stable while we have no pastor. Splendid animals they 
are, too, fine as fiddles, gentle as kittens.” And so they 
pass into the back yard, with its latticed summer-house and 
child’s swing and grounds well stocked with all shrubbery, 
among which w^ound gravel-walks. Thence into the house 
again. Dining-room handsomely furnished, side-board. 
“ Plate in bank,” Mr. Langdon explains ; “ china, you see,” 
he adds, opening the door of the china-closet on one side. 
Yes; chairs, extension-table, carpet, paintings on the wall 
— all in keeping. Then up stairs into the second story. 
“Only bed-rooms,” says Mr. Langdon, opening the door 
of each wide enough for his companion to see how noble 
and complete are all the furnishings thereof. “Linen- 
closet,” explains the guide, touching the porcelain knob of 
that apartment in passing. “ Bath-room. N o w, Mr. W all, 
you must look in here a moment. You see marble bath, 
faucets for hot water and cold ; hooks for clothes ; shelves 
for towels ; mirror ; stand for soaps, perfumes, and such 
things.” And so they pass on. 

“ Ah, now, this may interest you,” says Mr. Langdon, 
opening a door of a room off from the rest. “ Hold on 
till I open the shutters ; pastor’s study and library, you 
see. Yes, several thousand dollars’ worth of books there. 
That writing-table and chair — nice, isn’t it ? — was got up 
by the ladies. The inkstand is very costly — inlaid with 
gold : it’s at somebody’s house for safer keeping just now. 
Burke presented that ; he picked it up somewhere on one 
of his trips to Europe. Fine painting that ; handsome en- 
gravings there — some of Burke’s gatherings abroad. The 
fact is, we ought not to leave these things here, only we 
hope to get a pastor before very long. It’s hardly worth 
while going up to the attic,” says Mr. Langdon, as he passes 
the stairway leading thereto, after leaving the pastor’s^ 


170 


The New Timothy, 


study. It is only fitted up as a play-room for the chil- 
dren when the weather is bad — large enough for a dozen 
youngsters.” And so they came down the ample stairs 
again. “ Ah, the parlors !” says Mr. Langdon, as they 
reach the hall again. Carpets are up now for safe-keep- 
ing — finest tapestry we could get ; those mirrors we are 
afraid to move — too costly to risk breaking. Parlor or- 
gan, you see, and all the rest !” 

Mr. Wall had been in many city parlors by this time; 
but these, even in their denuded condition, rather eclipsed 
any thing he had ever before seen, and he said so, having 
main reference to the size of the rooms, the mouldings of 
the ceiling, the fresco of the walls. 

Yes,” said Mr. Langdon, standing in the centre of the 
wide doorway between the parlors, his hands clasped to- 
gether beneath his coat-tail, “ we take a pride in it, of 
course. This is a large city, and there are a good many 
of us to take part in it, some rather wealthy than not. Each 
wishes to contribute the tastiest mite to the general object. 
We are continually making some improvements. Our plan 
is to obtain as pastor a first-class man in every sense of the 
word — we will have no other ; when we get such we con- 
sider that we can not show him too much respect and af- 
fection.” 

Although the young minister did not say so there and 
then, he certainly thought just this about it all : Poor Mr. 
Merkes is ruined by his experiences so extremely the re- 
verse of all this. Only another sort of ruin all this will 
work to a man, unless he have, indeed, strong brain, 
stronger heart, strongest piety. 

And a fine, roomy church they have, I suppose ?” asked 
Mr. Ramsey, at last. 

Mr. Wall describes the church in full, its vast width, 
breadth, height from marble floor to panelled dome. He 


A Model Chuech. 


171 


tells of the pulpit and organ and gorgeous pews. He is 
enthusiastic on the way the building is perfectly ventilated 
and brilliantly lighted from above. “No portentous shad- 
ow of the minister thrown on the wall behind him,” ex- 
plains Mr. Wall; “every gesture exaggerated and carica- 
tured thereupon for the amusement of the younger portion 
of the audience !” In fact, he rebuilds the church from 
foundation to steeple-top before Mr. Ramsey’s eyes in a 
very substantial and vivid manner. There is no one alive 
but Mr. Ramsey with whom he would care to enter upon 
such a description. Besides, it has come on to rain since 
he entered the store. There are no customers coming in, 
and Mr. Ramsey is interested. A better listener the old 
gentleman is than Mr. Wall himself would have been, had 
the narration been made to him instead. The same thing 
told by us is so much more interesting than when narrated, 
you see, by any other. The elder Christian is gratified, 
but not satisfied so far — rather dissatisfied. Therefore the 
young minister proceeds to tell him of the large Sabbath- 
school, its circular seats, its maps, library, order, singing. 
Mr. Ramsey brightens up. 

“But how about the week-night prayer-meeting?” he 
asks. Mr. W all is compelled to say that it is not attended 
at all as could be expected. 

“ I feared so !” says Mr. Ramsey, with a sigh. “ And 
how about the members going to the theatre and balls 
and the like ?” he asks, and is compelled to shake his head 
even more sadly over the reply. 

“ And does not this rather contradict what you said in 
regard to the necessary influence of business in the city 
upon piety ?” asks his companion. 

“ It is what Christians might be, will be, as we draw 
nearer the Millennium, I was speaking of,” he explains. 
“ J osiah Evers was in here the other day — pity he tries to 


172 


The New Timothy. 


be a skeptic, on the same principle that he wears tight 
boots — to get me to make a pair of shoes he could wear ; 
his boots had almost killed his feet — a size too small from 
the start. And he was speaking of the advance of the 
world in science, art, commerce, civilization,” says Mr. 
Ramsey. ‘‘And he was right,” Mr. Ramsey adds. “Men 
have more to do of the kind, grander business of the sort 
to occupy them every day. And what I think is this : 
Just when locomotives are most numerous and travel fast- 
est; just when all sorts of manufactories are on the grand- 
est scale ; when crops of all kinds are most plentiful ; 
when all kinds of labor-saving machinery are in fullest op- 
eration ; when ships and steamships are swiftest and big- 
gest ; when printing-presses are turning out papers and 
books in most abundance — oh, you know what I mean,” 
says Mr. Ramsey, with a gesture — “ when the business of 
the globe — worldly business, I mean now — is at its largest 
and most pressing, it is just then that the men in whose 
hands it will be, will be all Christian men too, as being 
the largest of all men — in their notions, I mean — bodies, 
too, I hope. In Millennial times men will be so Christian, 
their piety’ll be of so ingrained and strong a kind, they’ll 
be able with their left hand like to hold and manage all 
the vast worldly business of the day, while with the right 
they turn it all for God. I have the idea but can’t express 
it. Only don’t believe I know any thing,” he added hasti- 
ly, “as to when the Millennium is to come and how. I’ve 
no patience for any such visionary notions. I’m only say- 
ing what piety will be then — ought to be now — what is 
its nature to be !” 

“It is almost time for me to go,” says Wall, rising; 
“and I haven’t told you yet any thing about Mr. Jones 
there in the city, and his enterprise.” 

“ And what is that ?” asks Mr. Ramsey, with instinctive 


Hoppleton Gossip. 


173 


interest. So the young minister has to tell him at length 
of white-haired, ruddy-faced, indomitable Mr. Jones, Mr. 
Langdon’s clerk. Of how he went out with a colony 
a year ago from the grand church ; of their Sabbath- 
school in the engine-house in the outer district of the city ; 
of the preaching therein morning and night on Sabbaths ; 
of their prayer-meeting and tract visitation. It is a long 
stor}^, and Mr. Wall tells the whole of it with zest. Had 
he not been with Mr. Jones as much as possible while in 
the city ? Had he not managed to get oft* from the parent 
church often enough to attend Sabbath-school and prayer- 
meeting — in fact to preach for them once or twice ? Truth 
to say, it was to him by far the most interesting part of his 
visit to the city — Mr. Jones and the new enterprise. And 
Mr. Ramsey is more interested in this than in all Mr. Wall 
has told him yet — much more ! 

It is almost dark before he can get away from Mr. Ram- 
sey. So dark that, as he passes Mr. Mack’s cabinet-shop 
on his way home, he would never have recognized that 
gentleman, seated upon the door-step in his shirt-sleeves, 
notwithstanding the drizzle, if he had not made it the new 
rule of his life never to pass any one without recognizing 
and saluting that individual, if in the bounds of possibility. 
Mr. Merkes is his impulse in the direction that is away 
from that gentleman’s example, when he now salutes Mr. 
Mack with a smile — stops, in fact, to shake hands, if it is 
only for a moment. Mr. Mack has done a good day’s 
work — if his work would only stay together when he has 
finished it — but he is, if possible, ‘rather fuller of fun than 
when he had, early in the morning, inquired of Issells, op- 
posite, the exact hour at which he would prefer he should 
have a coffin ready for his — Issells’s — immediate use. 

Needn’t trouble yourself to give me your measure,” he had 
remarked to the gloomy man. I know my own measure 


174 


The New Timothy. 


to an inch, and it takes just one-ninth, you know, for you.” 
Nor has Mr. Mack cooled himself in the drizzle to such a 
degree but a spark remains for Mr. Wall. He has the in- 
stinct of a monkey for fun, whoever and whatever turns 
up. He knows exactly where a joke will hit surest and 
penetrate deepest. He now fits his ready shaft to the 
string : 

“ And so Miss John and young Burleson are going to 
make a match of it, I am told, Mr. Wall !” 

It strikes as unexpectedly and as deeply as Mr. Mack 
can possibly wish ! Far more so than he dreams ! 


Peovidences. 


175 


Chapter XVI. 

Mr. Charles Wall has a Providence not apparently quite so providential. 

ATY idee is — a bear-fight,” said Mr, Long, boldly. 

HX « ^ what !” exclaimed uncle and nephew, with 
astonishment. It was several days after the events last 
recorded, and Mr. Long is seated in Mr. Wall’s study 
there in Hoppleton^ negotiating the removal of his nephew 
to the General Likens neighborhood. For the Rev. Mr. 
Merkes is going to leave the same. In fact, Mr. Merkes is 
always just arriving or just leaving. From long practice 
he has become as spherical to this as a ball. Just so long 
to like a new field ; just so long thereafter for the mutual 
dissatisfaction to bud; just so many months for this to 
bloom into open estrangement ; just such a time after this 
for Mr. Merkes to leave for another repetition of the same 
process elsewhere in hearty disgust. Mr. Merkes regards 
with painful suspicion the case of any minister settled for 
a length of time in the same field. Varieties of fruit even 
in the garden of the Lord ; and if Mr. Wall, senior, were 
as the ripe cluster, you too might have been as sour as 
poor Mr. Merkes if you had endured the same experi- 
ences. 

This settled, Mr. Long comes to another matter. “ I’ve 
got used to it now,” he remarks, “just as I’ve got used to 
risin’ at four, to sleepin’ on a blanket, an’ the like. Soon 
as I’ve done supper in my cabin ofi* there in the woods, the 
books have got to come as natural to me as to take a chaw 
of tobacco. Used to spend that time once another sort o’ 


176 


The New Timothy. 


way altogether till that became habit. And now this has 
become habit. No, Hebrew’s tough enough. Hebrew is 
very tough, indeed !” said the backwoodsman, with painful 
emphasis ; “but it’s not a bit too tough for a man in my 
case. I need something I must take hard hold on with 
both my hands, you see, or I’m mighty apt not to touch it 
at all. In fact, I don’t object, myself, to going at things 
regular rough and tough and tumble. It’s what I’ve been 
used to all my life. But I never undertook a job tougher 
than that Hebrew,” said Mr. Long, reflectively. “Never 
did ! And I’ll say this, too ; it’s tough enough, I’ve no 
hankerin’ it should be tougher than it is.” 

“But do you not meet ^ith opposition — I mean from 
your old associates ?” asked the uncle, in the course of 
further conversation. “ Excuse me. I refer to your old 
companions of the cross-roads and the race-course.” 

“ An’ the doggery, an’ the gamblin’ on a barrel-end,” 
continued Mr. Long for him, frankly. “ An’ the like devil- 
try. I will just tell you exactly the principle I go on. It 
’pears to me a plain one. It seems, as far as I can see, the 
only one. It’s with them fellows as it is with wild ani- 
mals. You can just keep clear of them if you want, stay 
far out of their stamping-ground, hold yourself aloof all 
the time. But I ain’t a man of that sort. It might be 
safest, but it don’t altogether suit me. Well, if I go 
among them it’s like goin’ among varmints, bears, panters, 
an’ the like. In among them there’s one of two things to 
be did: either they’ve got to be after you, or you’ve got to 
be after them ! I had to choose. And I did. I wouldn’t 
talk to anybody but you about it. Parson. And I wouldn’t 
say so much about myself even to you, only I’ve got a no- 
tion in my head — and I’m cornin’ to it. Something I want 
help to carry out makes me I must explain. Suppose I 
give away before those Meggar boys? You, sitting in 


Contending for the Faith. 1’77 

your study here, Parson, associating only with decent pecK 
pie, don’t know nothin’ at all about folks of that kind. I 
don’t mind at all,” said Mr. Long, deeply excited himseli 
in his story, “ how much they keep hollerin’ to me — ‘ I 
say. Bob, give us a sarmint !’ or ‘ Sing us a psalm or so, 
old fellow !’ I can stand their cursing me for a hypocrite 
by the hour together. As to jumping on me all in a 
bunch, holdin’ me, you see, while one poured whisky down 
my throat — j^laii was to make me drunk — well,” continued 
the stalwart hunter, with a grim smile, “ they tried that 
onst, only onst ! I was Sorry Bill Meggar got his rib 
broke; but I couldn’t help it. No,” continued the rude 
disciple, with deepest seriousness. “But to hear them 
blaspheme so, I camut stand ! Things worse. Parson, than 
you or your nephew here ever imagined of any body ex- 
cept, perhaps, of devils. They saw that Tmrt. It did ; and 
they went at it twenty times worse for that very reason. 
Question now was, fight or fly ? Suppose I had turned 
tail, what then? Why this: the devil and all his imps af- 
ter me, my own heart singin’ out in me, ‘You give it up. 
Bob ; holler Enough !’ Why, Parson,” said Mr. Long, 
pushing up his huge hat from his heated forehead, “ I’d 
have been run down quick enough. No, sir. ‘Resist the 
devil an’ he will flee from you ;’ but how ? ‘ The weapons 

of our warfare are not carnal ’ — bowie-knives, six-shooters, 
an’ the like — ‘ but mighty through God, to the pulling 
down of strong-holds.’ Very well, exactly ! So, from the 
very start of my tryin’ to lead a new life, I began on them, 
instead, with all my might, didn’t even give them time to 
cap, much less pull trigger, before I was down on them 
myself !” 

“I do not entirely understand,” began Mr. Wall, the 
uncle, interest in every line of his genial face. 

“ No ?” exclaimed Mr. Long, with some surprise. “ Why, 
12 


178 


The New Timothy. 


I only look at things as they are. These chaps, the Meg- 
gar boys, an’ the like, are awful sinners. The man of 
them that dies, as he now is, is a lost man in hell forever. 
Such people are mighty apt to die, an’ sudden at that — 
a cut with a knife, a crack of a revolver, strychnine whis- 
ky, an’ the like. But here’s a Salvation ready an’ waitin’ 
for the man that’ll have it. Repent an’ believe ! that’s the 
amount of my preachin’ to them. My own case is all the 
argument, anecdote, an’ illustration I need. I says to the 
hardest cases among them, ‘Look here, if God could con- 
vert me^ it stands to reason he can convert you ; if God 
was willing to lay His hand on such a case as I was, no 
danger but He’s willing to convert you. You see, my re- 
ligion is just this : a man can’t be such a sinner, let him 
have done his level best, but Christ is a great enough 
Saviour to save him !’ Going hunting with one of them 
chaps, or among a crowd of them, I keep at them, as occa- 
sion offers. Repent an’ believe ! Repent an’ believe ! after 
them hard all the time ! Even if I can’t do them any 
good, it keeps them from being after me — anticipates 
them, you mind.” 

“I trust you may persevere,” said Mr. Wall, the uncle, 
after a pause. “ But I must be frank with you, Mr. Long,” 
he continued, after a still larger pause. “ You can not 
imagine how anxious I am, how fearful all your Christian 
friends are — ” 

“Dreadin’ every day to hear say I’ve given up every 
thing, gone back like a dog to his vomit,” interrupted Mr. 
Long, with a frank smile upon his bronzed face. “ Pre- 
cisely. And if I do go back, one thing I know mighty 
well. I’ll be fifty thousand times worse’n I’ve ever been 
yet. Yes, sir ! One other thing I know, ^anyhow,” con- 
tinued the hunter, speaking very slowly and half to him- 
self, “ that is, all my help is in God. And I know one 


A Pious Bear-Fight. 


179 


other thing more, too. This, that I just intend to hang on 
to Him close, with both hands, as long as I live. That is, 
you know, if He’ll only help me do it !” 

The elder minister of the two had intended to add a lit- 
tle warning and exhortation ; the tone and manner in 
which Mr. Long spoke altogether anticipated, however, 
and manifestly rendered this useless. 

But you spoke of my being able to assist you in some- 
thing,” said the young minister at last. 

“ About them Meggar boys,” said Mr. Long. Yes, Pve 
been after them some time now. I ain’t without my hopes 
even of them^'* added he, boldly, as if he expected to be de- 
rided for any such hope. “ I’ve studied at it ridin’ through 
the woods, I’ve turned it over an’ over. I’ve got my idee, 
an’ I think you can help me. Oh, it’s no use tryiii’ ; unless 
you took a yoke o’ steers an’ a log-chain to it you couldn’t 
get one of them chaps to preachin’. No, but I’ve got a 
plan, too.” And Mr. Long hesitated, pushed his copious 
wool hat up off his reflective organs, and began to pull the 
straggling ends of his whiskers into the corners of his 
mouth, biting nervously at what was left of them from his 
Greek and especially Hebrew studies, as he turned the 
matter reflectively over again in his mind. 

Well, and what is it?” said the young minister, after 
pausing a while by way of meeting his friend at half dis- 
tance. 

“My plan is — a bear-fight,” said Mr. Long, boldly, but 
with anxious inquiry in his tones and eyes. 

“ A what ?” exclaimed uncle and nephew in a breath. 

“ A bear-fight !” repeated Mr. Long. But with his reply 
came the sound of the front gate falling to. The fact is, 
the young minister had all the time given his eyes to Mr. 
Long but his ears to the gate, expecting this expression 
from it. A wretched habit it is, that of listening to your 


180 


The New Timothy. 


visitor so attentively with your eyes while your thoughts 
are leagues away ; it is hypocrisy, it is literally eye-serv- 
ice. And now the waited-for sound of the front gate dis- 
pelled even the mockery of attention the nephew was 
giving his visitor. To uncle and guest the sound only 
said Bang ! hardly that. To the nephew it said, “ I am 
gone !” 

“ You’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Long,” said that gentle- 
man. “ I have a little engagement. I will see you again,” 
and, grasping his hat, he too is gone. Mr. Long’s position 
commands a view, through the window, of the street run- 
ning in front of the house. As his friend leaves so impul- 
sively he sees a very handsomely-dressed lady pass along 
the sidewalk, the young minister beside her ! For an in- 
stant the rude disciple experiences a pang of keen disap- 
pointment; she is very beautiful, and Mr. Wall is very much 
in love ! 

“ Of course ! Only human nature !” he remarks to the 
uncle. “ Astonishin’ how much human nature there is in 
the world. Young, too, and why not. I’d like to know ?” 
And none the less the hunter gazes after the retreating 
forms a little ruefully, obtaining as he does so scanty re- 
freshment from the ends of his tortured beard. 

Let it suffice to say, just here, that the success of Mr. 
Long in the chase does not forsake him when a preacher 
for the General Likens neighborhood is the object there- 
of. There is a good deal of silent mortification in nephew, 
and especially in uncle, at not hearing from the city church. 
Mortification, which like all such bitter medicine, does good 
to these, each according to his own need ; for it is with in- 
finite exactness the Great Physician weighs out to us of 
His drugs. 

Must we record the greeting the new minister receives 
when, some days after this, he arrives at General Likens’s? 


The Bear-Fight Arranged. 


181 


And, almost on his arrival, it is arranged that Mr. Long’s 
idea of a bear-fight shall be carried out, and immediately. 
Escape from the perpetual mortification by plunge into 
that^ is the swift and unconscious reasoning of the new pas- 
tor. 


182 


The New Timothy. 


Chapter XVII. 

We make acquaintance with the Meggars. 



ND this is Old Man Meggars, I do hope It is 


Mr. Wall who says it. Somewhat impatiently, too, 
for Mr. Wall is not twenty-four as yet, and has not, so far, 
had more than a blow or two of the discipline of suffering. 

So do I, most sincerely.” 

It is Mike, Mr. Wall’s horse, who at least means this ; 
for Mike is the most intelligent of animals — a bright bay 
in more senses of the word than one. There was a mu- 
tual understanding the most perfect between him and his 
master. With this exception : that his master should ride 
him, especially if he rode him at full speed, Mike could un- 
derstand ; but that said rider should seat himself in that 
wheeled trough he called his buggy, to be dragged along 
by him, this was at once the mystery and misery of Mike’s 
existence, often pausing between pulls at the fodder, after 
he had finished his corn, to consider it. 

This morning Mike had thanked all the gods of his my- 
thology that the rattling bother his soul abhorred was not 
lumbering at his heels. Little satisfaction, however, does 
Mike get from this at last. If Mr. Wall had only taken 
the cabin of Brown Bob Long in his way, horse and rider 
would have saved a whole morning of blundering through 
the woods in search of Old Man Meggar, painfully en- 
tangling themselves in whole skeins, so to speak, of dim 
forest threads, crossing and winding back upon and knot- 
ting themselves uj) in hopeless confusion, Mike begins at 


The Meggaes House. 


183 


last to have painful apprehensions as to the sobriety, sani- 
ty even, of his rider. So turned to the right, to the left, is 
he, so continually being whirled about in the perpetual 
circling of the paths supposed to lie under the dead leaves, 
that he can hardly distinguish in the end his stupid tail 
from his sagacious nose; is getting to fear he will lose even 
his own strong senses. As to his bewildered master, like 
every one of us when in the wrong, he rides on, perfectly 
sure he is right ; perfectly sure, until his path suddenly 
coils up upon itself and expires beneath Mike’s hoofs at a 
charcoal-pit or a heap of rails mauled and left years ago. 
And at last, when he rides along, perfectly satisfied that he 
is going wrong, he suddenly comes upon Old Man Meg- 
gars, hidden away among the undergrowth, as vermin 
should always be and sometimes are. 

Mr. Wall never saw the place before, yet he knows it at a 
glance ! A long, low, rickety, dirty cabin it is, with a tot- 
tering chimney of sticks and mud at each end. According 
to the architecture invariable in that Western region famil- 
iarly known as ‘‘ Egypt,” there is a passage-way through 
the middle, and along the ^yhole front is a low shed, sup- 
ported upon unbarked black-jack poles. The earth beneath 
as clean as the poultry roosting every night under the shed 
above upon the rafters will permit. The surrounding out- 
houses are of the same style only several degrees lower. 
As Mr. Wall rides slowly up, his heart sinking as he does 
so, he observes what an amazing number of gourds are hang- 
ing about the rail fence, the offspring of riotous vines, run- 
ning up and over and along upon the miserable fence with 
a recklessness characteristic of the whole place. Dozens 
of gourds hang also suspended from the tops of long and 
leaning poles, each gourd the home of a family of martins, 
every member of which is perpetually darting into its 
abode to dart immediately out again, as from household 


184 


The New Timothy. 


strife therein which it was impossible to stand. The road 
before the cabins has evidently been for years the gather- 
ing-place of cattle. Among the mire lies an old wagon, and 
parts of another cumber the rotting logs placed on end, one 
higher than the other, at the fence by which the yard is 
entered. Half a dozen old saddles stride the fence, left 
there since being taken oft* the horses from sheer laziness, 
and which will not be taken into the house by their own- 
ers until the last possible moment before night. 

More closely than this Mr. Wall has no time to observe 
for the awful din of the dogs around him. His first dis- 
tant approach to the place has been sentinelled by a vicious 
beast on three legs, and his quick, spiteful bark is speedily 
caught up by a dozen or so of dogs Of all shapes, colors, 
sizes, rousing from under the cabins and in all corners of 
the yard, and pouring over and through the fence with a wel- 
come in keeping with the place. Fiery-eyed, lean to a de- 
gree apparently inconsistent with existence ; scarce a whole 
tail, ear, or eye among them ; evidently used to incessant 
cursing and kicking, scalding- water and cow-hides — a dis- 
solute gang of canine banditti, in strict conformity with 
their masters. Even amidst their din Mr. Wall can not 
but notice the Agamemnon of the host, a large dog torn 
and maimed, the only silent one there, who stands with his 
grizzled head through a hole in the fence, evidently weigh- 
ing in his mind the character and purpose of the new-comer 
as with the dignity of a judge. Thunder was his name, if 
Mr. Wall only knew it. Twice the rider reins up with 
thought of turning back. But night is coming on ; he will 
be hopelessly lost in the forest ! and so he rides slowly up, 
circled in by the increasing profanity of the dogs, as afresh 
recruit bounds every moment over the fence to their aid. 

The rider sees, drawing nearer, that there is quite a group 
of men lounging in the passage of the cabins and under the 


The Meggar Boys. 


185 


front shed. A rough-looking set they are ; and, to his dis- 
may, he observes quite a group of them around a whisky- 
barrel standing on end, playing cards upon its red head, 
with oaths and exclamations. The screams of a tortured 
fiddle come from within the house. In fact there is a mi- 
asma of wickedness, and whisky, and wretchedness, upon 
the whole den. But there is nothing else to do but get off 
his horse, defying the curs yelling and snapping around 
him. It would have been bad enough had he come under 
the protection of Brown Bob Long. Mr. Wall never felt 
so hopelessly alone in his life. Fresh from a Theologi- 
cal Institution, in which he had been during these last four 
years or so systematically unfitted for intercourse with 
the men and women of ordinary life, he would as lief have 
undertaken a camp of Comanches ! 

But two or three of the men least occupied are looking 
at him at last. They arise and come out together in their 
dirty shirt-sleeves, pipe in mouth. They reach the fence, 
and lean upon it on their folded arms — rough, red-head- 
ed, blowzy, bearded, large-nosed men they are. It is not 
Mr. Wall they are interested in at all; it is his horse. A 
man they can see any time, and attach very little value to 
when seen. A fine horse is quite another thing. So far 
as the rider can see they have not as yet observed that he 
has accompanied the horse. At last one of them remarks : 

‘‘ Pretty fair!” 

“See them shoulders, Jake !” says another. 

“And the puttin’ together of them hind -legs. Bill!” 
adds a third. 

The first gentleman becomes more interested as he 
gazes upon Mike. Then and afterwards Mr. Wall observes 
that this one of the household bears to the rest the same 
relation of rule that Thunder does among the dogs — for 
this is Doc. Meggar. There is rude weight, positive dig- 


186 


The New Timothy. 


nity, about this man as he gets over the fence for a closer 
examination of the horse, followed by the other two. 

“ Very fair, indeed !” remarks this slow-spoken person- 
age at last, after walking deliberately around Mike, pijie 
in hand, kicking the swarming dogs out of his way. 

“ Ever seed cleaner chest than that. Doc. ?” inquires the 
one standing immediately in front of the admired horse. 

“ ’Tain’t every day you can skeer up a critter with such 
action. Doc.,” the third puts it to the leader of them. 

By this time Doc. Meggar has placed the stem of his 
cob pipe firmly between his teeth, while he takes a pull 
at Mike’s tail. Jake is at the same instant testing the an- 
imal’s eyes by “ making a shy ” at them with his ragged 
red handkerchief, and Mike would have been indeed stone 
blind not to have started from an article of the filth and 
odor of the one in question. Bill Meggar contents him- 
self by measuring Mike with his hand and examining his 
teeth, both of which the horse earnestly resents. 

“ How much that critter cost you ?” asks Doc. Meggai 
at last of the owner ; and it is the first recognition by any 
one of them there of his existence. 

“ He was given to me by my uncle,” replies that gentle- 
man. 

“ Ketch my daddy, let alone uncle, givin’ me sech an ane- 
mil,” remarks Jake, wdth severe sarcasm, implying strong 
doubt of the statement. 

“ But what will you take, now ? Not a serviceable boss, 
mind ; too flimsy across the I’ins. On’y a sort of fancy 
anemil ; ain’t a paint boss nuther, say ?” asks Bill, resuming 
his pipe. 

“ Thank you. I don’t want to sell,” is the reply. 

“ Of course 7iot ! What you want to do is to swap. I 
seed that in your eyes the minit you rode up. That’s what 
you come for ! Just you hold on a bit !” 


Yahoos. 


187 


And Jake disappears for five minutes, to return from the 
back premises with a sorrel horse only less in size than a 
barn, rather the frame of a barn, for every bone is distinct- 
ly visible. Mr. Meggar leads the steed close beside the 
other, and is scornful of Mike at the contrast. A long dis- 
course upon the superiority of the yellow barn in question 
follows. On the part of the visitor there is outward pleas- 
antness of manner and words, but inward sickness of soul, 
the experience is so new. 

The rest of the men scent an attempted swap from the 
outset. There are Old Man Meggar himself and two friends 
with whom he has been gambling upon the barrel, who re- 
mind Mr. Wall of dirty and defaced cents, and who circu- 
late there as Zed and Toad. Not even the greasy cards 
can stand against the attractions of a swap of horses, and 
these join the group. No one has the least concern as to 
who the visitor is. The entire interest is centred in Mike, 
and Mr. Wall has a new insight into Swift’s tale of the Ya- 
hoos and their four-footed masters. Though, at last, Mr. 
Wall afterwards says to himself, the greatest Yahoo that 
ever lived on earth was just the Dean himself ! 

But this venerable head of the household. Old Man Meg- 
gar ! A miserable, little, shivelled up old sinner ; his scan- 
ty wisps of white hair in strings about a weazen face ; a 
pair of small eyes, red and watery from some sixty years 
of steady intoxication. To his toothless mouth swearing 
seems the only language left, flowing uninterruptedly with 
a rivulet of tobacco-juice which trickles down his ragged 
white beard from either filthy corner thereof. To him, as 
to his host, Mr. Wall now makes his appeal. 

“ This is old Mr. Meggar, I believe ?” he says, with an 
inclination toward that old reprobate. “I started on a 
little visit to you, got lost in the woods, have had no din- 
ner, am as hungry as you please. If it is convenient, sir, 


188 


The New Timothy. 


I would like a little something to eat. As to our horses, 
gentlemen, they can wait !” 

Acting, every bit of it. He is sorry he came, but he is 
in for it now, as into battle. All the sour Mr. Merkes in 
him rises in revolt. But he casts out the Mr. Merkes in 
him as he would a devil. ‘‘Simple Christian manliness, 
my boy !” he whispers to himself, cowardly enough to glance 
eagerly as he does so up the road. Oh, if Bob Long would 
only come ! The visitor has appealed to that one of the vir- 
tues which is about the only one left to that household — 
hospitality. In such a frank and cordial way too ! 

“ Certainly, sir, certainly !” said the old man, and he 
climbed feebly over the fence, followed by his guest, the 
rest remaining about the horses. “ What could I hev been 
thinking of? I oughter hev — ” And here a dirty negro 
woman emerged from a side-hovel in answer to his curses. 
“ Where’s ole woman ? you cullud cuss !” 

“ Same place, Massa ! sa-a-ame place ! Dowm’t end ob 
garding ! ’Hind de butter-beans !” 

“ A-prayin’ away !” said the master, with unspeakable 
disgust. “You jest run down there, quicker’n a flash. 
Tell her there’s a man here at the house w^ants his dinner. 
You clip it. Take seat, sir. Ev’ry afternoon, year ’round, 
same way ! Hev a pipe, sir ? A-prayin’, rain or shine, 
'hind them butter-beans ! — Bill” (at the top of his voice to 
the men at the fence), “ hev you an’ Jake left enny o’ that 
whisky? Not a single drop?” (In a lowered growl) — 
“ Of course not. You’ll hev to wait a little, sir. Boy’s 
gone to cross-roads for more, and I’ll lamm him when he 
gets here ! A-prayin’ ! Ez if Almighty ever comes in rifle- 
shot o’ the place !” and the oaths and tobacco-juice and hos- 
pitable attentions to his guest flowed on, mingled with un- 
speakable contempt at the conduct of his wife, praying 
behind the butter-beans. 


With the Meggars. 


189 


‘‘And what might your name be, stranger?” he asks at 
last. 

“Charles Wall,” replies the visitor, suddenly and stout- 
ly, but with a terror down his very spine. He need not 
have feared. Old Man Meggar knows nothing of him or 
of any other of his class ! 

“ And your name is Meggar,” he continued, in the same 
breath. “ Meggar, Meggar ; I don’t remember ever meet- 
ing with any of that name before.” 

A few of the men have torn themselves from the horse, 
and are lounging about the speaker. His remark brings 
out from all an instant, unanimous, uproarious shout of 
laughter. 

“Why, what is the joke?” Mr. Wall inquires, as soon 
as he can be heard. His simplicity in asking such a ques- 
tion provokes another and heartier peal. 

“Well, you see,” said his host, wiping with his yellow 
sleeve his watery eyes, and leering upon his guest like a 
decrepit satyr — “ you see. I’m the child of misfortin’. I 
didn’t happen to hev any father, ’cept my mother. Her 
name was Meg — Meg something or other ; I don’t rightly 
mind what ; don’t matter. I s’pose people that knew my 
mother, seein’ me a little shaver toddlin’ about, ’d say, 
‘Hello, little Meggar!’ and it come that way. Can’t say 
who begun it. Anyhow, Meggar’s my name. No, you 
never heern tell of the name before, I suppose !” 

And he led off again in a peal of that particularly filthy 
kind of laughter which indicates the nature of the joke 
starting it. Only hear that peculiar species of merriment 
— from within a dram-shop as you pass the door, for in- 
stance — and you can be positively certain of the kind of 
jest it follows. 

As the conversation proceeded, foul with profanity and 
filthy allusion, two thoughts struggled together in the 


190 


The New Timothy. 


mind of the visitor. The first and most natural was, 
“ These people are fiends in the fiesh, hopelessly lost al- 
ready. I was a fool for coming on such an errand. Only 
let me get away once — that is all I ask!” Against this 
arose up another thought : “ These people are kept in this 
world still by the One that made them. If He can endure 
them I certainly ought. ‘ Mighty to save !’ Yes even 
such as these. Who knows but even by me ? Anyhow, 
here He has led me — here I intend to do all I can 1” 

But a strong effort it required for Mr. Wall, fresh from 
the Institution alluded to, to be fully at home with any 
new acquaintance, least of all such as these. “ Yes, down 
with the Mr. Merkes !” he whispered to himself. “ Admi- 
rable practice !” and threw himself into Health, the Weath- 
er, the Crops. Then the floating News of the Hay. Then 
his horse, his admirable qualities, and how he had made 
that one desperate attempt to escape for his life from the 
^«ggy* 

He must have caught the infection of talk from Mrs. 
General Likens, with whom he boarded. As he warmed 
to his work, careful too not to overdo it, he brought about, 
at last, peals of laughter at some joke ventured. He was 
aiming to please, and who can say what Divine Power was 
not aiding him ? Before governors, kings, councils, syn- 
agogues — before bullies and blackguards, for that matter — 
before whomsoever God places a man — “ Take no thought 
how or what thing ye shall answer, or what ye shall say, 
for — ” Ah yes ! at least he succeeds. 

“ Tell you what, boys, that chap’s horse is some ; an’ he 
ain’t far behind his animal himself,” is the strong remark 
of Jake when their guest is summoned from them. 

By this time all gathered around him into the house to 
dinner. 

“You jest go in an’ sit up an’ make yourself at home. 


Old Mrs. Meggak. 


191 


Mister. We all hed hed our dinner ’fore you come,” is the 
invitation of Old Man Meggar. 

And so, entering the low doorway into a dark room, the 
guest seats himself at a table spread there. After a bow 
to a motherly old lady at the other end, he drops his head 
for a moment upon his hand, from long habit. When he 
looks up again the old lady is gazing upon him in a state 
of astonishment. As Mr. Wall’s eyes get used to the 
darkness, he observes that she is a comelier person by far 
than he would have hoped to have seen in such a home. 
The white hair smoothed back under the simple cap of 
white muslin; such patience and peace in her sorrowful 
face as more than makes up to him for the absence of 
brown Bob Long — an unhoped-for ally ! As her guest re- 
ceives the blue-ware cup of strong coffee from her hands 
he says to himself, “ Yes, there is an inherent refinement in 
the sex which no degradation can utterly destroy.” And 
he is utterly mistaken. There is nothing of the kind. 

And what might your name be ?” asked the old lady 
over the tops of her spectacles, after seeing that he has 
helped himself to butter and hot corn-pone. The pork 
and greens he has had the sense to take, at least, on his 
plate, with no intention save of politeness ; for a leading 
feature of the Institution from which he comes is syste- 
matically to weaken also the digestive functions. We all 
do homage to Brain and Heart there ; but how heartily 
we despise .and maltreat the base helot Stomach ! Only 
a necessary nuisance, that ! 

“ Wall, Madam, Charles Wall,” is the reply to her ques- 
tion, which is asked only to make the visitor feel more at 
home. 

‘‘Wall? Did you say Wall?” she asks, eagerly, yet 
softly. 

“Yes, ma’am. Wall.” 


192 


The New Timothy. 


“ Not any kin to that Rev. Wall, lives in Hopple ton 

“ His only nejiliew, ma’am. Do you know him ?” 

“ Why, bless the Lord !” exclaims the old woman, very 
softly still, bringing her hands, suddenly clasped together, 
down upon the coarse cloth before her. “ Do I know 
him! Preacher Wall ! Why, it was him led me to know 
the Lord ! An’ you are his nephew I’ve hearn Bob Long 
tell of. Bless the Lord !” And tears are trickling down 
the old lady’s cheek as she again brings down her hands, 
clasped together, as by habit of unceasing prayer, on the 
table before her, but softly still, very softly. 

“ Yes, ma’am, and glad to know you,” the visitor replies, 
with deep interest. 

“An’ come in, yes, just at the very moment I was pray- 
in’ the Lord down behind butter-beans. He answerin’ 
my very prayer; yes, jest while I was prayin’, and I hard- 
ly darsent believe, so foolish was I ! Yes, an’ ign’rant ! 
bless the Lord !” more softly still, but with silent, copious 
tears. 

“ And you knew my uncle ?” said her guest, at length. 

“ That blessed meetin’ in the Likens neighborhood ! 
Yes,” replied the old woman, gently. “ I can’t tell how I 
ever come to get to go. Yes ; but it’s harder to tell how 
I ever come to get away from it again. Yes ; ’twas there 
I found the Lord. Yes, I had lived in sin all up to that 
time ! Religion ! Yes, I knew as little about it as th’ old 
man an’ the boys do this hour. But the Lord, yes, he 
wouldn’t refuse me. He act’ly took me, a-comin’ to him ! 
An’ the Lord, he knows, I’ve tried hard to keep, yes, close 
to him ever since. I’ve got a Bible ; keep it in that crack 
’tween the logs there by the bed, from the old man an’ the 
boys. An’ you are Ms nephew ? Bless the Lord !” very 
softly indeed. 

“ But here I am clean forgettin’ !” exclaimed the old 


Hospitality. 


193 


lady, rising from her seat. “ Take some more molasses in 
your coffee;” and she held the old pewter spoon brim- 
ming, from the blue saucer, with molasses over his cup. 
“ Sweet enough ? Take some more o’ th’ hot pone — sorry 
it ain’t cracklin’ bread. Yes, an’ there’s the butter. An’ 
you don’t love pork an’ greens ? Lemme see — yes !” with 
energy. And the old lady proceeded to an ancient weath- 
er-beaten trunk in the corner of the low, dark room ; un- 
locked it, took out a glass jar. 

“ Plum-jelly, I found time to make last summer,” she 
explained, as she placed it on the table, dusted the top 
with her check apron, opened it, and proceeded to help her 
guest liberally. Mr. Wall had his hand up to decline; 
but he had more sense, not to say piety, and accepted it 
with thanks. It might have been far, very far, sweeter 
than it was ; but he ate it with relish — for her sake. 

“ Made to eat with venison, child — only we ha’an’t any 
deer meat to-day. It’s the best I’ve got to offer ye,” said 
the old lady, as she resumed her seat. “And how did the 
Lord put it in your head to come ? First one you are hes 
ever been under this roof !” she inquired. 

“It is Mr. Long’s idea, Madam,” replied her guest, as 
he went on with his meal. “ He agreed to go with your 
sons on a bear-hunt, and took the liberty to invite me.” 

“Unbeknown to the boys, yes,” said the old lady, 
eagerly, with open eyes, and in a low voice. “ But it was 
a resk ! Yes. If th’ old man had a-seen you a ridin’ up, 
knowin’ who you was, he would a-been mighty apt to 
have said, ‘At him, boys!’ an’ in half no time ev’ry dog 
on the place would a-been over the fence an’ at you in real 
earnest 1” 

The dogs alluded to are indulging in the luxury of a 
universal fight in the front yard while she speaks. Her 

guest can appreciate her remark. 

13 


194 


The New Timothy. 


“ But never you fear — it was the Lord sent you. Yes. 
Bless the Lord !” softly and with deepest fervor. 

“ I have no doubt you often pray for your husband and 
sons ?” asked her guest, becoming more interested, from 
his very position, in the men outside, whose laughing and 
swearing — some cleaning their guns, others gambling over 
the whisky-barrel — formed a running background, so to 
speak, to the conversation at the table within. 

‘‘ Constant — constant — constant was the reply from 
the heart of the wife and the mother. “I’d got to keer 
precious little for th’ old man an’ the boys — worn-out like 
— feelin’ pretty much what, I suppose, a cow has for her 
calves. Up to the time I found the Lord, you mind ! 
Sence then ! Yes, I keer ten thousing times more for ’em. 
Ef the Lord will onny convert one o’ them — don’t matter 
which — onny one o’ them ! Seems to me I don’t do noth- 
in’ but pray for ’em — never out o’ my mind — never out o’ 
my lips. Pray for ’em ! Yes ; makin’ bread, fixin’ the 
clothes, lookin’ after the black ones, pourin’ out coffee for 
’em — all the time. When they’re startin’ out, an’ when 
they come home roarin’ drunk ; when tliey’re blasphemin’, 
and when they’re sleepin’. Sleepin’ ? Yes ; when them 
boys — great, big, grown men now — are sleepin’ in the oth- 
er room, I often an’ often steals in an’ kneels by bedside — 
sleepin’ so peaceful minds me of when they was babes an’ 
children. I like to be near ’em, touchin’ ’em while I pray. 
This one Lord, I say, or this one — only me to pray for 
them. Lord ! Oh, if it be possible ! And behind the but- 
ter-beans, too ! Seems to me the Lord must hear !” 

The tears had ceased flowing ; too much in earnest now 
for that ; and speaking so low, too, her guest at her elbow 
could scarcely hear her. 

“ Do you not attempt to do any thing — speak to them 
— any thing of that kind ?” asks the visitor, after a pause. 


All Things to all Men. 


195 


N’ever, dear ! N'o, they’re too far gone for that ! On’y 
the Lord can do any thing with such as them ! Yes ; so 
I just put it all in His hands. But,” with some alarm, 
“ef you’re sure you’ve done dinner you’d better go out 
now ; they might wonner what we found to talk about so 
long !” 

And so Mr. Wall puts on a stout heart and goes out 
again under the front shed somewhat as one would have 
stepped off into a cess-pool. Careful not to overdo his 
part, he makes himself as much at ease among them as he 
can — adapts himself to his company. It strikes him in the 
midst of his success that he would have made a good act- 
or; he feels flattered. Jesuit ? He half fears it ! 

Just then the dog on duty gives a shrill alarm, and the 
yard of dogs pours itself over the fence and open their fly- 
ing artillery upon another arrival. As he rides up, this 
new visitor is so much rougher in his general appearance 
than even the rest that Mr. Wall’s heart sinks within him; 
he has already as many savages on hand as he can manage. 
The Institution effectually abstracted him from paying at- 
tention to such trifles as, say, horses ; he was as uncon- 
scious of the animal a man bestrode as the Meggars of the 
man himself Had he looked below the new arrival’s 
beard he would have recognized Bobasheela ; but he didn’t. 
The stranger draws up at the fence, and gives a “ Halloo 
here !” loud enough to have informed a flourishing village 
of his approach. 

“ Light !” is the responsive yell from the patriarch of 
the household, who, lounging to the fence, leans his arm 
upon it, and enters, according to established usage, upon 
the topics of Health, Weather, Crops — the new-comer still 
seated in his saddle. The group under the shed take no 
interest in the arrival ; they have all seen Bobasheela be- 
fore. In half an hour the stranger accompanies his host to 


196 


The New Timothy. 


the cabin, heavily laden with hunting accoutrements — 
Thunder gravely bringing up the rear. 

“ Evenin’, Jake. How are you by this time. Doc. ? Ribs 
got well. Bill? That you. Toad? As us’al. Zed?” are 
his easy salutations as he enters the shed. 

“ This hyer is Mr. — Mr. — what did you call your name. 
Mister?” says Doc. Meggar of Mr. Wall, essaying to intro- 
duce him. 

“ Oh, never mind ; I’ve met him before,” says Mr. Long, 
who has observed Mike at the fence. But he gives Mr. 
Wall a grasp of the hand which brings tears of unaffected 
feeling — it is so tight — to his eyes. 

One thing strikes Mr. Wall. From the moment of Bob 
Long’s arrival, all redouble, if that were possible, their pro- 
fanity. The group about the barrel gamble twice as bois- 
terously, slapping down the cards with fresh oaths and 
energy. Toad resumes his greasy fiddle and defies him. 
The lowest and vilest jigs succeed each other in desperate 
haste — aimed offensively at Mr. Long. Yet every body 
feels that it is all put on to hide a sense of fear of defeat. 
Immensely relieved the first-comer feels by the arrival of 
his rough ally ; the more so as Mr. Long is evidently mas- 
ter of the menagerie — quietly but entirely so. 

“ Old coat,” meditates that person in reference to Mr. 
Wall — “mighty like one I’ve seen on General Likens. 
Worst pants he hes — torn at that. Rusty-lookin’ hat, an’ 
keeps it on in the house. General Likens’s old gun leanin 
by him against the wall. Come over without me, to be in- 
pendent like. Ah yes, it’s a resk, but you’ll do !” 

And Mr. Long tilts his chair also against the log-wall, 
and is quite comfortable. Yes, and his friend owes part 
of his success to the effect on him as well as others of the 
clothes he wears, and he knows it. Dress, as we all un- 
derstand, has much to do with diplomacy. 


A Meggab Conveksazione. 


197 


“ Know you’re sufferin’ for whisky, Bob ! Boy’s gone 
for some — won’t keep you waitin’ long,” remarks Old Man 
Meggar, wdth a wink of his watery eye and a wagging of 
his wicked old head at the company assembled. 

“Ain’t got room for you at the barrel just now. Bob! 
On’y hold your horses half a minute — let you in torectly ! 
Never knew sech a fellar for cards, on’y you will cheat!” 
is the remark of Jake. 

“ That ain’t a circumstance ; you’ll excuse me. Bob ; it’s 
too good. I must tell it !” begins Bill. 

“ Hold your racket. Toad — him a brethering in the 
church, too ! It’s wuth hearin’.” And Bill proceeds to 
tell, with oaths as to its strict truth, an appalling tale of 
very recent wickedness on the part of Bob Long. 

While Mr. Wall sickens as if at sea, Mr. Long sits se- 
rene, entire master still. Bill strains his imagination, 
heaps filth on filth, oath on oath ! Now one, then another, 
backing up each other hj peals of laughter, they urge on 
the attempt at martyrdom. Yet, even to themselves, they 
are only a pack of curs yelping about a lion; Zed and 
Toad, even, feel that. 

“ Now, look here, boys,” says browm Bob Long at last, 
when the attack begins to slacken from exhaustion. But 
Toad begins a vigorous jig upon his detestable fiddle, at 
the martyr’s elbow. 

“ Hold up one minit. Toad,” and Mr. Long lays one 
broad, hairy hand upon that gentleman’s shoulder. Toad 
only applies himself to his fiddle that much the more vig- 
orously, giving head, arms, legs, feet, as well as voice, to 
the w^ork. The next moment Mr. Long has plucked the 
violin out of his hands, stepped out, and pitched it on top 
of the shed, and resumed his chair — all very quietly. 
“ What is the use, boys ?” he says. We all know we’ve 
got to stand our trial before Almighty before long, an’ af- 


198 


The New Timothy. 


ter that, heaven or hell ! It’s fact, an’ we all know it ! 
What is the use 

It is all in the tone and manner ! Guarded by hands 
alert as those of a prize-fighter to ward off from him every 
touch, there is, even in these, a soul. You can strike a 
man a blow in the soul as well as in the stomach ; at least. 
Bob Long has done it ! Not a man there is quite the same 
man after it. It is a relief to them that supper is an- 
nounced just at that instant. 

After supper Toad manages to fish down his fiddle, with 
many a curse, from the shed. Cards and a discussion of 
the hunt to-morrow are resumed to its inspiring strains. 
Mr. Wall, on invitation, agrees to stay all night and attend 
the hunt. The boy does not return with the whisky, and 
is thoroughly cursed as if by men on a raft at sea perish- 
ing of thirst. By midnight the house is buried in sleep. 
Angels, curious of the result, hover over Mrs. Meggar plead- 
ing hard behind the butter-beans. 


Morning avith the Meggaes. 


199 


Chapter XVIII. 

The Hunt of the Bear, and of other Game besides, 

•” says Bob Long, in the ear of our 
hero, and he wakes to find it broad day. He dresses 
rapidly. Washes out under the shed still more rapidly, 
as the tin pan has a hole in the bottom. Breakfast. Old 
Man Meggar remains bundled up in bed in a corner of the 
room in which they eat, only a small opening left through 
the bed-clothes as an outlet for his oaths. He is perishing 
for whisky ! His sons also suffer ; but being younger they 
can bear the privation better. The boy sent for whisky 
has not yet returned. As wondering curses fall on him 
therefor, Mr. Long looks peculiarly solemn. Mrs. Meggar 
pauses once in pouring out the coffee, glances at Mr. Long, 
and continues to pour with an inward, “ Yes. Bless the 
Lord, I see !” 

The jar of plum-jelly is on the table. Mrs. Meggar’s 
reasoning on that point has been brief but conclusive : 
“Well, ^6^ it all be eaten up this mornin’, so that he gets 
some more !” Very sour it is indeed ! Its acidity sharp- 
ens Mr. Wall’s teeth as for battle, yet, under the circum- 
stances, he makes a religion of eating it. 

Out in the yard, after breakfast, he finds the canine laz- 
zaroni in a state of wildest excitement. What remains to 
them of tails is being violently wagged, and the howling — 
Thunder augustly silent — is awful. Xot a dog there but 
has entirely forgotten the hope of breakfast which fed his 
soul during the night, in prospect of a hunt on hand. 


200 


The New Timothy. 


When at last they ride off from the fence, the feast of a 
Montfaucon would not have held back for an instant from 
following the ignoblest cur there. An air of even gravity 
has settled down upon the men as they ride— they have 
entered on business now. Doc. Meggar, the eldest son 
and sententious gentleman of the family, is now profound- 
ly silent, swearing inwardly only as he rides, a kind of dig- 
nity, even, in the man. By common consent, after they have 
got a mile or two from the house into the woods, all the 
rest fall behind to let him ride in front. Mr. Long has 
the aspect of going to battle. His soul also is troubled. 
“ Sing’lar, I never thought of it oust,” he says to Mr. Wall, 
riding close to him and speaking in a low tone. 

“How in the world will we manage to find you after- 
wards ? After we get into the thick of the bresh it’ll be 
like lookin’ for a needle in the biggest sort of a haystack. 
When we start, you keep as near me as you can. I’ll ride 
as slow as I can, too. An’ when you are left behind, don’t 
be sheared too much. You listen for the dogs, an’ ride for 
them. Ef you don’t hear them, I can yell — a little. Ef it’s 
too far for that, don’t you be sheared, and try to hunt us up 
— don’t get yourself deranged. Jest stay still where you 
happen to be, and keep firing your rifle every quarter or 
so. Climb a tree if night ketches you ; and when mornin’ 
comes agin, you jest keep a-firin’. Here’s a hunk of bread, 
put it in your pocket, case you should need it !” 

This was altogether a new view of the matter to the per- 
son in question. He was about to reply, but a huge grape- 
vine dangling from a tree overhead at this moment sepa- 
rated them as they rode. In fact, riding together was now 
becoming impossible as the woods became thicker. Doc. 
Meggar, too, leading the van, sends back over his shoulder 
the Parthian arrow of a single oath. Silence is the law 
now. Mr. Wall notices that all the dogs have fallen into 


The Hunt. 


201 


a solid group, and trot along with one large black dog well 
in front of them. Thunder is his name, as our hero knows 
by this time from the perpetual mention made of him last 
night and before starting. No tail whatever has Thunder, 
only one eye is left him, accompanied by the merest frag- 
ment of a left ear. A long scar extends from ear to tail. 
As yet the young minister is unacquainted with his bark ; 
if Thunder had ventured on that anywhere about the 
house, even if it had been at midnight, not a man in the 
same but would have sprung for his rifle. He now leads 
the van, bearing with him the profound respect of every 
animal there behind him, on foot or in saddle. 

As they ride, our novice must needs entangle himself in 
the branches of a huge tree fallen to the ground. While 
toiling to force his way through, not unblessed of Toad and 
Zed, he catches a sudden vision of a brown animal running 
down the trunk of a tree. To bring his heavy gun to his 
shoulder and send the contents of one of its barrels after 
the animal is the work of an instant. 

“He’s been hunted off of before, that horse, young as he 
is !” is the exclamation of Jake behind him, however, with 
increased admimtion of the animal. Well he had been, or 
his rider would have been left at the shot, torn out of his 
saddle by the brush. Mike only quivers, as it is, with a 
sense of unpleasant warmth in the tips of his intelligent 
ears, now browned from the discharge. Thunder pauses 
a moment on three feet, while his associates break ranks 
and plunge amidst the brush in search of the wounded an- 
imal. No wild-cat there ! It is a quarter of a mile away, 
unhurt. And so the dogs resume their trot behind their 
leader, now far in advance. The unsuccessful marksman 
disentangles himself from the brush, and reloads his gun. 
Mr. Long reins in his temper and his pony and waits for 
him, while the others ride on, disgusted, after the dogs. 


202 


The New Timothy. 


For full an hour our hero winds his horse around the 
trees and through the dense thickets in call of Mr. Long, 
but silent. Suddenly he observes oif to the left a kind of 
furrow among the fallen leaves, their under and damper 
sides being turned up. 

“ I say, Mr. Long, here a moment. Isn’t this the path 
of a bear ?” he calls, reining up. Mr. Long is sorely tempt- 
ed to vexation. Out of courtesy he rides back to look. 

“ Hi ! Thunder !” he yells, as his eye catches the bear- 
trail; “good for you, Mr. Wall !” he pauses to say, and 
calls again and again until the woods ring. Thunder is 
half a mile off to the right ; but in a few minutes he is un- 
der their hoofs. Silent until his nose touches the trail, 
then he opens like the boom of a bell, and disappears along 
the trail, his nose to the ground. At the sound every dog 
in the forest opens also through the whole gamut, and soon 
are following in the wake of Thunder, while the hunters 
spur and yell after. Doc. Meggar silent but soon far in front. 
Alas for Mr. Long’s good resolutions ! At the first sound 
from Thunder the existence of his friend has passed utterly 
from his mind. With a yell to Bobasheela he dashes after 
through the thicket and is soon lost to sight. 

Favoring Mike with a cry such as he has never before 
heard — at least from his present master, and digging both 
heels convulsively into his flanks, Mr. Wall speeds along 
behind. Mike catches the enthusiasm, and on they tear. 
It would never have done for the young clergyman to have 
ridden at any thing like this rate through the Institution 
grounds, or even through Hoppleton. Astonishing the de- 
gree to which circumstances alter cases ! He has not gone 
a quarter of a mile, however, before he reins up with a jerk. 
In attempting to dash through a thicket his hat has been 
jerked from his head, his powder-horn and shot-pouch torn 
from around his neck, his double-barrelled gun lies, twitch- 


After the Bear. 


203 


ed from his grasp by a grape-vine, upon the ground twenty 
yards behind, the bridle half plucked off his horse, and 
broken at that. It is dreadful to stop an instant, for the 
cry of dogs and men is already far ahead, growing fainter 
every moment. 

Only one course to tDursue. The rider dismounts, mends 
his bridle, puts it on again and fastens his horse. He then 
mends the shoulder-strap of his powder-horn and pouches, 
takes off his outer coat, puts his pouches on again, his coat 
on over that, and buttons it up from neck to waist. He 
has lost a handful of silver. Never mind, no time to look 
for that. Future antiquarians coming upon it may wonder 
and theorize and publish as to how on earth the money 
ever got there. No time for that now ! He then regains 
his hat and forces it down upon his head, so that if torn 
off again his head will accompany it. Next a stout switch 
is cut to assist his spurs. Then the girth of his saddle is 
drawn up a hole or two, the blanket first pulled well for- 
ward. Last, his gun is secured. Remounting, he addresses 
himself to his task with a sort of desperation. All sounds 
of dogs and men have now died entirely away. Was he 
wrong in breathing a swift prayer as he applies switch and 
spurs to his horse ? Right or wrong, wise or foolish, it 
was a spontaneous act. Let us photograph the man or 
leave him alone. 

He felt amazed at himself as he dashed along in the di- 
rection from which the sounds had last come. Ravines 
over which he would not have dreamed of leaping at any 
other time, dense thickets through which he would never 
in a saner moment have supposed it possible for a human 
being to pass, on and on through a kind of whirlwind of 
saplings and forest-trees, brambles and grape-vines, he 
rushed, his hat down over his eyes, his left hand holding 
his gun upon his shoulder, his right plying the switch. 


204 


The New Timothy. 


Cabined up all his life, he now gave absolute rein to him- 
self as well as to his horse, enjoying the excitement with 
all his soul. “And if a bear, say, or a buck had burst 
through the Institution ground, students, pale tutors, spec- 
tacled professors, every soul therein, would have abandon- 
ed, for the moment. Church and world too in the mad 
chase. Esau was born before Jacob!” So he reasons as 
he rides. If Mr. Wall indeed had a guardian angel, that 
angel used his wings to some purpose to keep in full charge 
of him as he dashes on reckless of himself. He has by far 
the best horse on the ground ; he rides at least as headlong 
as any man there; craziest there of all for the time, he 
soon makes up for his delay, comes in hearing of the dogs 
and men again. He observes that the hunters have been 
left far to the right, while the dogs are off to the other 
side. An idea strikes him and he turns sharply to the left, 
for the animal, whatever it is, is evidently making a circuit 
in that direction. In a few minutes’ hard riding he finds 
that the dogs are ahead of him, while the men are shouting 
on his trail far behind. To be at last the foremost one in 
the race ! The thought inspires him. He uses switch and 
spurs with double energy. He has ceased to shout. He 
finds it is only exhausting him without accomplishing any 
object. And so he rides silently on. He is evidently com- 
ing nearer and nearer upon the dogs. 

Suddenly he turns off still more to the left from their 
cry. Before he knows it he comes upon the object of pur- 
suit — a black bear ! It seems immensely large as it sham- 
bles along ; seems to be going very slow too, considering 
the eagerness of his friends behind. But the excitement 
on seeing it ! The rider has for a moment forsaken his pro- 
fession as a minister.^ He has abandoned his very senses. 
He yells at his horse, he halloos for the dogs, he screams 
to Mr. Long. In his frenzy he takes out his penknife, and 


Fight with the Bear. 


205 


opens it savagely, with the purpose of jumping oif his 
horse, rushing in upon the monster and slaughtering him 
upon the spot. Then it flashes upon him to ride his horse 
upon the animal and beat him over the head with one of 
the stirrup-irons, which he insanely unbuckles, as he rides, 
from the saddle for that purpose. Mike is as excited as 
his rider, he gets within ten steps of the bear, but declines 
going nearer. In vain the spurs and switch and yells of his 
rider. If that rider has lost his wits, Mike hasn’t his. So 
the insane sportsman hurls his stirruj), leather and all, at 
the bear, trundling so leisurely along, a black mass of wool 
and fat. 

Suddenly he remembers his gun. Leaping from his horse, 
he runs almost upon the bear, levels his weapon, with hands 
shaking with excitement, full upon it, cocks one barrel, and 
pulls desperately away at the trigger of the other. The 
instant he had left his horse Mike entered upon the sport 
on his own account, and gallops furiously along in the di- 
rection of the hunt. The bear goes crushing through the 
thicket, the dogs now well upon him. Thunder in advance. 
The dismounted Nimrod can hear the faint cries of the rest 
of the party far behind. He dashes on after the bear on 
foot. See ! It has turned to bay. He comes full upon it, 
seated upright, with its back against a tree, wiping at the 
dogs swarming upon it, right and left, with its huge paws, 
its red mouth open and foaming. The last particle of sense 
forsakes the young fool. He advances directly upon the 
animal, levels his short, heavy gun full at its breast, a small 
white spot furnishing the mark, cocks both hammers, pulls 
both triggers, and finds himself at the discharge lying flat 
upon his back. He has a general impression that the bear 
will be upon him in an instant, and he scrambles, quivering 
and shaking with excitement, upon his feet. He need not 
fear ! There had been powder and buck-shot in his rifle 


206 


The New Timothy. 


sufficient for quite a long campaign of shooting. He was 
so near, too ! There it lies upon the ground, the great un- 
wieldy mass of wool, dead, the dogs yelling and biting at 
it in a whirlwind of excitement. 

The hunter can not believe his eyes. That he — he 
should actually have killed the bear ! He drives off the 
dogs with difficulty with his empty gun, and seats himself 
exhausted upon his prey — and a most luxuriant cushion it 
is — never king happier on his throne ! 

It occurs to him, panting with exertion, to see if his 
pockets have not been emptied in his fall, and he takes 
therefrom knife, pocket Testament, and all. The shouts 
of the men are coming nearer and nearer. The dogs have 
fallen exhausted around — these, too, panting for dear life. 
Two of them are apparently dying — one lies dead from the 
fight. Thunder is reposing at a little distance looking 
gravely, not so much at the bear as at the individual seat- 
ed upon him, ceasing now and then to pant as if he had 
been struck by some new idea about it. At last he rises 
with the utmost dignity, approaches the young minister, 
smells him carefully, elaborately all around, and from head 
to foot, and resumes his lying down and panting. Not 
having a tail, it is impossible for him to express the result 
of his investigation. It is highly flattering to his new ac- 
quaintance, but he keeps it gravely to himself 

The cries of the rest of the party draw nearer and near- 
er. It may be it was fromffatigue, but it may be it was 
from affectation ; at any rate our hero keeps his seat upon 
the bear. Here comes the foremost of the party behind — 
Doc. Meggar ! The blood is streaming down his face from 
a gash laid open in his cheek by the branch of a tree. He 
dashes up, jumps from his sweating horse, stands a mo- 
ment in stupefied astonishment, and then, most emphatic- 
ally, 


Mr. Wall and the Meggars. 


207 


“Look here,” he says at last. “I say, you, stranger, 
give us your hand !” very gravely too. 

Mr. Wall cordially complies ; it is shaken long and vig- 
orously, even solemnly, by Doc., who then falls on the 
ground and proceeds to drink ravenously from a little 
pool of green water in which the bear is half lying. There 
is more mud than water, and as much blood as either, in 
the pool. It strikes the stranger that Doc. drinks as much 
for the blood as for the water. He swallows down his ex- 
clamation, however, and receives with a vast deal more 
coolness and indifference of manner than of heart the rest 
of the Meggars who now pour in, tattered from the brush, 
excited, wondering, and awfully profane. Mr. Wall feels 
called upon to apologize. 

“ It is all a mere accident, gentlemen,” he says, rising 
and standing off to one side. “ I hajDpened to have a tol- 
erably good horse ; and then I happened to be so I could 
head the bear. It is the first time I ever was on a hunt.” 

The Meggars have nothing to say at the moment, being 
busy fastening their horses and getting their knives ready 
for work on the bear. They have a unanimous and decid- 
ed opinion on the point ; and Zed and Toad know exactly 
what that opinion is. Not in vain have these eat at the 
table of the Meggars, slept on the floor of their cabin, had 
“ chaws ” from their bars of tobacco, drinks from their 
whisker-jugs, the use of their greasy decks of cards for so 
long. Had the Meggars entertained even the least hostile 
feeling towards the successful hunter. Zed and Toad would 
have proceeded in advance to curse him for them on the 
spot; held themselves ready to do any thing besides 
which their relation to the Meggars demanded. In fact, 
what Thunder was to the dogs at home, so are these bat- 
tered, dilapidated, unutterably degraded specimens of the 
race to the Meggar boys. It is amazing the swarm of just 


208 


The New Timothy. 


such lice as these this Meggar family are infested by ! 
And then those who dreaded a^ death to offend them ! 
They were kings — the Meggars — of the whole section! 
Of course, they drew their followers towards all evil with 
vastly more ease than if they were working in the opposite 
direction. Yet Bob Long knew exactly what he under- 
took; and it was worth the effort. Bob’s attempt on 
them was an effort, in fact, for the whole section through 
them — an axe struck at the very root of the Banian wick- 
edness of the entire region — a Napoleonic charge upon the 
very centre of the forces of the devil there. “ May talk 
of accident,” says Zed for his patrons ; “ but it’s only to 
fus-class folks sech accidents happen. Never happen to 
me r Zed, as being the last of the' alphabet. “ Head- 
in’ ?” yelps the other jackal. “ An’ a good horse ? But it 
takes a clipper of a chap to make the dash you did, stran- 
ger, through these here woods. Wish had a drink of whis- 
ky to offer ye !” 

The unaccountable failure of the boy to appear with the 
whisky the night before, and the consequent absence of 
that essential beverage during the hunt, had been a grief 
that had accompanied the Meggars and their hangers-on, 
from the instant they left their suffering parent, through 
brush and brier, up to the present instant. Mr. Long’s 
reasoning, from long observation and experience, had been 
that the excitement of the whisky, together Vvith that of 
the hunt, might be a little too much even for him to man- 
age. By a bold stroke he had cut off the supply of whis- 
ky — only the excitement of a slain bear remained. 

And this was of a wolfish nature. Hardly had the jack- 
als agreed in their eulogy upon Mr. Wall than they fell 
into a sudden disagreement in regard to the inches of fat 
on the bear. Before the young hunter knew a quarrel was 
brewing. Zed and Toad were rolling over and over upon 


A Family Fight. 


209 


the bloody ground, their hands twisted in each other’s 
hair, pounding, kicking, cursing each other. It excited not 
a particle of interest in the others, who were now at work 
upon Bruin, divesting that stray Russian of his furry robe. 

“ Thank you, no, believe not !” had been the reply to 
Mr. Wall’s offer to lend an assisting hand. Had it been a 
slaughtered hog instead, he would have shrunk from the 
task with loathing. But a bear — of his own shooting, too ! 
He had a craving to dabble in its blood — to rend it to 
atoms ! Yes, and if the oldest of his venerable professors 
from the Seminary could have been placed on horseback, 
and borne through the hunt, he would have had the same 
eager, savage feeling. Witness the keen satisfaction with 
which they would hunt down an errorist and slaughter 
him before the class ! If the disposition to hunt something 
were not one essential to keeping down all sorts of vermin, 
it would never have been kindled, as it is, in every bosom ! 

The party had been at work on the bear half an hour 
when a faint yell came upon their ears from the far depths 
of the forest. Xo one regarded it at all — hard at work 
wdth bloody knives, carving and chopping. 

“ Bob Long !” said one of them, incidentally, after the 
fifth yell from the distance. 

“ Get out o’ the way !” said Doc. Meggar, at last, push- 
ing Zed aside from the bear. ‘Won ain’t good for any 
thin’ else ; give Bob Long a yelp or so !” 

Zed rose, placed a bloody hand on each side of his 
mouth, inflated his chest, and gave a yell that brought 
every dog except Thunder to his feet. But it was still 
many minutes before they were required to turn from the 
bear to assault Mr. Long approaching the spot. 

“ Tol’able, tol’able,” said he, standing over the heap of 
bloody meat. “ How many inches on the ribs ?” . 

“ Three !” exclaimed Zed, with a scowl at Toad. 

14 


210 


The New Timothy. 


“ You lie ! — five !” shouted Toad, and thereupon Zed 
pitched head foremost upon him across the streaming pile, 
and the couple rolled and pounded, and kicked and crush- 
ed as before, attracting no attention even from the dogs. 

“ But look here — no use o’ askin’, I suppose — seen any- 
thin’ of that Mr. Wall?” said Mr. Long; for that gentle- 
man had strayed ofi*, partly in search of his lost stirrup, 
and largely to get away for a while from the hideous 
swearing. 

“ Seen who ?” asked Bill Meggar, with profound indif- 
ference. 

“ You mean that chap started with us this mornin’ ?” 
inquired Jake. “Yes; I seen him last fall, fiddle in one 
hand, jug of whisky in the other, floatin’ on a raft down 
the 0-hi-o !” 

“ I hnew he’d get lost !” remarked Mr. Long to himself. 
“ Take about three days to hunt him up. Weil, ha’n’t got 
any thing better to do !” 

“ Hold on a minute,” remarked Doc., who was down on 
his knees on the outspread skin recently worn by the her- 
mit of the woods, smoothing and folding it for carrying. 
“ You mind the hand Daddy was onst in a hunt — tol’able, 
hay ?” he asked. 

Mr. Long leaned upon his rifle and* nodded his head. 

“ I have done a little somethin’ of the kind in my day,” 
continued Doc., ceasing his labors and sitting with crossed 
legs on the mire of blood and dirt and locks of wool under 
him. “Mind that time. Bob, I had with that panter? 
Time I tuk the old lady’s pups, an’ had her after me; five 
claws in each of her four hands ; mouth full o’ teeth ?” 

Mr. Long remembered perfectl}^ 

“ When I come tearin’ up this mornin’, I ’head of the 
rest, cheek cut open, after miles of the tallest ridin’ through 
the thickest bresh,” said Doc., “ when I rode up an’ seed 


Men and Beasts. 


211 


tliat chap a-settin’ on the bar, comfortable as if had been 
settin’ there more’n a year ; as cool an’ quiet ! I says to 
myself, ‘ You are beat this time, anyhow, old feller ; you 
just acknowledge the corn — hand over your hat!’ ” 

“ Seen who ?” asked Mr. Long, in the dark. 

“ Who’m I talkin'* about ?” exclaims Doc., exceedingly ir- 
ritated and with a volley of oaths. 

At this point Zed and Toad break in with a full and 
highly-colored description of the killing of the bear. 

“An’ look at Thunder !” said Zed, as Mr. Wall came up 
leading his horse, with said dog at his heels. “ A feller 
can’t get that dog so much as to look at him as a gineral 
thing — won’t even smell a bone if Toad or Zed gives it to 
him ; an’ ever sence this bar was killed he’s stuck to this 
stranger close, lyin’ down at his feet, sticking to him, like 
you see a puj) do, whenever he moves. Thunder knows !” 
continued Zed, with abundant blasphemy by way of con- 
firmation. He knows, that dog does !” 

As Mr. Wall approached, Mr. Long pushed back his hat 
— considerably damaged in its transit through the brush — 
from over his eyes, and looked steadily at him, as if it had 
been several years since they had last met. 

“ That there is a horse,” remarked Bill, for the informa- 
tion of his friends in natural history, as Mr. Wall led his 
animal up to receive his share of the load of bear-meat. 
“A horse,” he repeated, as he walked slowly round and 
round him, looking lovingly and longingly at his various 
points with more than the enthusiasm of a connoisseur at 
a fine painting. “A horse,” he murmured to himself. 
“ Yes, this ’ere is a horse — an an-e-mil !” 

A few moments after saw the whole party off for the 
camping-spot. Being too late in the day to return to the 
house, there was nothing to do but spend the night at the 
nearest water. Very much more than their portion of the 


212 


The New Timothy. 


load of meat was assigned to Zed and Toad, fastened about 
their saddles with maledictions and buckskin thongs. 
Upon these gentlemen the reaction from excitement and 
the long and exhausting deficit of whisky was beginning 
to tell woefully, and they brought up the rear of the cara- 
van in a dilapidated and dejected manner, hardly energy 
enough to curse along the wretched ponies which they be- 
strode. 

“An’ so you’ve got yourself killed. Buck?” Bill had 
said before mounting, turning the dead dog over with his 
foot. “ Well, old fellow, you’ve did your duty, any way !” 

As to the wounded dogs, they were left to hobble after 
if their broken bones would allow, or to die on the field of 
victory, as they saw best. 

It was not until the arrival of the party at the camping- 
spot that Mr. Wall learned this fact. Beckoning Mr. Long 
aside and begging him to accompany him, he rode direct- 
ly back on the path they had come. Sure enough, the two 
dogs had dragged themselves along after their masters as 
far as they could, and lay whimpering in the path. A 
rapid examination by Mr. Long satisfied him that one of 
the dogs was hopelessly injured, every rib broken. 

“ Shoot him,” said his companion, in more the language 
of command than he had used before killing the bear. 
Mr. Long complied, and the miseries of the animal were 
over. Only one leg of the other dog was broken. Re- 
lieving each other by turns, the wounded animal was car- 
ried, licking the hands that held him, upon the pommel of 
their saddles into camp. 

“Well,” exclaimed Zed, as the dog was gently placed 
on the ground before the huge fire, “ ef you ha’n’t act’ly 
brung that dog in — a dog I An’ goin’ to splinter his cuss- 
ed leg too — a dog 

“ It’s more’n Doc., or Bill, or Jake here" would ’a done for 


A Forest Feast. 


213 


me ef my leg had got broke in a bear-fight,” with oaths of 
affirmation, remarked Toad — and, no one can doubt, he was 
not far wrong. 

By this time night had settled upon the camp. The 
blaze of its fire threw long shadows from the trees around. 
The mournful cry of the whip-poor-will, the persistent 
hooting of the owls, the distant howls of the wolves, drove 
the party nearer together around the fire. In every man’s 
hand was a long forked stick, upon every stick was a slice 
of bear-meat, and far into the night each man roasted and 
ate, roasted and ate. Very little sufficed for the novice — 
too fat and rich by far for a stomach used for so many 
years to Boston crackers and other Seminary ambrosia. 
As to the rest of the party, they rioted and revelled in the 
scorched meat until each fairly streamed down his blowzy 
beard and to his very feet with grease. At intervals Toad 
and Zed would lay aside their toasting-sticks to dance a 
violent hornpipe. “ Settle my stim-mick so’s I can hold a 
little more !” was the explanation vouchsafed by them to 
the company. 

But there was no whisky ! Only to a certain degree did 
Mr. Long’s large supply of coffee, which by a singular 
coincidence he happened to have with him, make up for its 
absence. Mr. Wall and his ally exert themselves to make 
up for the painful absence in question to their utmost 
power. 

“ Sure you two ain’t got a flask about you !” is the flab 
tering result of their efforts to entertain the company, so 
well do they succeed. 

It was after twelve before the party were asleep about 
their fire. In fact. Toad and Zed were up and down the 
entire night, roasting and eating as the state of their stom- 
achs rendered it possible. By the rising of the sun the 
whole party had finished a hearty breakfast, and were 


214 


The New Timothy. 


ready to be off. Mr. Long and his friend in one direction, 
the rest in the other. 

“ If you have no special use for it, I would be glad to 
have the bear-skin,” is Mr. Wall’s request of Doc. Meggar. 

That gentleman accordingly accedes, and himself rolls 
up the wardrobe of the deceased bear and binds it secure- 
ly on behind Mr. Wall’s saddle. It was the first occasion 
on which he had ever done any thing of the kind, or of 
any kind, for any one. “ And I would be much obliged 
if you would get this poor dog home in some way,” 
Mr. Wall continues, addressing himself to Zed. “ A lit- 
tle care now, and he will be ready for another hunt.” 

“ Me ! carry that dog !” exclaims that gentleman — dis- 
gust and astonishment struggling for ascendency in his 
very dirty face ; and he declines the task in a whirlwind of 
blasphemy. 

‘‘ Ef I was to say. Zed, you eat this here dog, you’d do it 
— not briled either — raw ! you’d hev it to do,” remarks 
Doc. Meggar, composedly. “ Yes, sir,” he continues to Mr. 
Wall, “I’ll see he does it.” And he did. “Be glad to hev 
you drop in whenever you’re passin’,” he adds, as he shakes 
his hand. 

“That Institution of yours,” Mr. Long remarks, after 
half an hour’s riding from camp, “ fits a man all those 
years, I dessay, to tell men the Gospel after you’ve got 
hold on them ! But to get hold on people like these Meg- 
gar boys — an’ there’s thousands of them — in the gen’ral 
run, does it fit ’em for that f Make ’m like Christ on the 
sea-shore — ” 

But we dare not utter the heresy of Mr. Long’s question 
nor Mr. Wall’s reply. 

“ You fool folks thought that fellar missed when he shot 
that wild-cat. Soon as he fired,” lies Toad, in continuance 
of conversation in camp after the friends have left, “ I seed 


Doc. Meggar’s Views. 


215 


tail of the wild-cat hangin’ in top of a cotton-wood, its head 
a-grinnin’ in the forks of a black-jack a hunder yards the 
other way ! See Thunder ! He knows. Stuck to him to 
the last ! Don’t you go an’ forget to carry that splinter- 
ed pup home, Zed.” 

“ Pitchin’ head-foremost into bar one minit, gone away 
back after lame pup, tyin’ his leg up with handkercher 
teared into strings the next. What’s pup to him And 
Zed manifested a strong tendency to curse the absent 
benefactor. 

“ Zed, you look here !” interrupted Doc. Meggar, com- 
posedly. “ You jest lemme hear one word agin this 
stranger, an’ you’ll hev me on your hands, sure.” 

“ Well !” exclaimed Zed, with abundant oaths. JS^ever 
knew you to take up for a man afore in my life. Sky’s 
goin’ to fall ! Whisky’s gin out, that’s it !” 

“An’ there’s brown Bob Long,” continued Doc., still 
more composedly. “We all know what he an’ we 
all know what he is. Some tremenjus change has tooken 
that man, and ’tain’t for the worse, nuther. For one, I be- 
lieve in Bob Long ; an’ what’s more, I intend the rest of 
you shall too. We all know he’s in the right. It’s like 
cowards not to say so.” 

At this point Jake gives a sounding slap upon his leg, 
and exclaims, “ I’ll be shot !” 

'No one understands this in the light of more than a 
figurative request, and wait for an explanation. 

“ It’s the preacher, boys !” he exclaims, with energy ; 
“sure’s you \i\e^ the preacher / Wall, he said his name 
was. None of us didn’t notice at the time. I rec’lect it 
now ; name of the man Bob wanted us to go an’ hear 
preach.” 

“ Couldn’t account for it before,” said Toad, after the 
general expression of “ the crowd ” was over in some de- 


216 


The New Timothy. 


gree, and with his hand upon his throat. “For last twen- 
ty-four hours every time I was rippin’ out a curse it felt 
sorter stickin’ like jest here.” 

His friends had themselves observed in him no hesitancy 
of the kind ; yet not a man there but had remarked a re- 
straint upon himself in the company of their new acquaint- 
ance. 

“Never said a thing, never gave even a sour look, so 
fur as I see,” remarked Jake. “ Pleasant as you please, 
too. If that chaj) is a preacher I ha’n’t no objections to 
preachers myself.” 

“ An’ that accounts for that book,” said Doc. “ Told 
you how I rode up an’ found him settin’ on that old bar. 
May I be ” — and his language was extremely strong — “ ef 
that man wasn’t readin’ his Bible! Think of a preacher 
tearin’ like a flash of lightnin’ through bresh sich as that, 
gettin’ ahead of every body, killin’ a bar first shot, then 
settin’ down on the bar like in a pulpit a-readin’ his Bible ! 
You may count me in after this. I believe in preachers 
myself.” 

It ^as a decree — an edict. It was the inauguration of 
a revolution — a revolution so sudden and radical as to be 
received in profound silence. All there knew how much 
it meant. 

“ Hev you got a clean shirt. Toad ?” asked Doc. Meggar, 
somewhat suddenly, half an hour later, as they all rode 
home together, the remains — not very much — of the game 
fastened behind their saddles. 

“A clean shirt! Can’t say I hev,” replied that gentle- 
man. “ Ha’n’t no use for any I know’s on.” 

“ Hev you got any. Zed ?” asks Doc. of that individual. 

“ Nary shirt ; last went for gallon of whisky an’ a pack 
o’ cards. I hed two oust,” continues Zed, with some pride. 
“ Nary shirt now !” he adds, with charming candor. “ Ain’t 


The Meggab Boys Afraid. 


217 


a goin’ to get married, Doc. ?” he asks, with considerable 
alarm. 

“ I an’ the boys ’ll hev to loan you both,” is the composed 
reply. “ We’re all of us a goin’ to hear that man preach 
next Sunday — ev’ry Sunday — an’ you’ve both of you got 
to go too.” 

There is a long-continued and profound silence after this 
as they ride. 

“Tell you what, fellers. I’m skeard,” remarks Jake at 
length. “ Months ago I come upon the old ’oman a makin’ 
shirts. ‘Who for?’ I asked. ‘For you boys,’ says she. 
‘ An’ what for ?’ says I. ‘ To go to meetin’ in,’ says she. 
‘ Meetin’ !’ says I, an’ I swore a few. ‘ Yes you will, Jake,’ 
says she, softly like, a-sewin’ on. ‘ Yes you will,’ says she. 
An’ she a-prayin’ at it ’hind the butter-beans. Tell you 
what, fellers, I feel sheared !” 


218 


The New Timothy. 


Chapter XIX. 

The Diocletian of these Days. 

I T was only a fragment of wrapping-paper not larger 
than the palm of your hand, yet it came upon and cov- 
ered forever like a tombstone of heaviest marble the entire 
question as to whether or no Charles Wall is to be pastor 
of the city church. In this way : 

Ours being a free country, the citizens of Hoppleton have 
about as much access to any one part of their post-office 
as to another. Or if any body hesitates a little in refer- 
ence to going behind the letter-boxes and assisting in sort- 
ing the mails, wondering over the post-marks on the let- 
ters, having the first look at the illustrations of the maga- 
zines, and the like, Tom Hopple makes any such a one a 
deputy postmaster in a trice, and so removes all possible 
objection to the fullest access to all his realm. Thus there 
were only the usual two dozen deputies, or thereabout, 
handling the mail-bags the evening the all-important letter 
arrived from Mr. Langdon on behalf of the city church, con- 
veying to Mr. Wall the nephew an invitation to the same 
as pastor thereof. And so that gentleman’s fortunes, as far 
as that church is concerned, are poised for a moment with- 
in that letter upon the edge of the littered table about 
which the deputies crowd laughing and talking. A nail’s 
breadth more upon the table and it will remain there, be 
delivered, be accepted ! But the letter falling unobserved 
upon the doubly littered floor, the wrapping of a newspaper 
is dropped upon it the moment after ; the letter disappear- 


Manifest Providence. 


219 


ing thus forever from the eye of man. Luke, the yellow boy, 
crams it, in the centre of an armful of paper, into the stove 
next morning ; and the unanimous call of the magnificent 
church ends as ignominiously as Alexander’s dust. Not 
hearing from the same, Mr. Wall junior, more mortified than 
he cares to show, accepts the pressing offer of the church 
in the Likens neighborhood, forsaken just now by Mr. 
Merkes in coming to Hoppleton to teach. 

Of course there had followed other correspondence be- 
tween the young clergyman and the somewhat astonished 
church in question. Having once pledged himself, how- 
ever, to the country church, he refuses to recede therefrom, 
to the great amazement and still greater respect of all who 
know him. 

“ It is a manifest Providence !” he reasons with his uncle, 
who acknowledges it, though by no means so readily as he 
had done that which had seemed to call his nephew to the 
city instead. 

When he learns from Mrs. General Likens that John is 
actually coming out there to teach school, when John soon 
after arrives with her trunks and is installed in her school 
held in the church building, the Providence grows clearer. 

And so we are quietly settled down in the Likens neigh- 
borhood for the present. This evening Mrs. General Likens 
is imparting valuable advice, in unceasing continuance, to 
John, seated at the supper-table. 

“No, child, whatever you do, don’t you never marry a 
preacher !” very solemnly, even said as with the menace of 
prophecy. 

Mr. Wall is shut up in his room studying all of each 
morning, away visiting among his charge all of every after- 
noon. John is absent at school all day, imparting and re- 
ceiving too a vast deal of instruction. The General is over 
the place, pipe in mouth, looking gravely after the black 


220 


The New Timothy. 


ones, pretty much all day. Even when he occupies his 
arm-chair out on the porch or beside the fire — for fall is 
coming on — he is to his wife like a cliff w^orn smooth by 
the long-continued wash of the surf; he listens too impas- 
sively, listens too much as if he was not listening at all. 
Very solemn and silent the General is becoming, having the 
aspect, as he sits and smokes, as if he were waiting, wait- 
ing for something, waiting fully prepared and willing when 
it should arrive. 

“ I can’t exactly describe it,” Laura Wall had said in the 
family circle at Hoppleton after a week’s visit to General 
Likens, “ the change that is coming over John. She is per- 
fectly well, round and plump, soft and rosy. But she has 
become even more silent that she used to be.” 

“ Worn out with that wretched school-room — what a 
girl she is !” Mrs. Wall had ventured, an invalid herself. 

“Not at all,” Laura had eagerly replied. “She is not 
worried at all. You know how happy she always was be- 
fore. She seems even more so now, only a deeper, quieter 
kind of cheerfulness, more serene, more peaceful. She is 
amazingly beautiful — all lighted up from vnthin somehow. 
My wonder is how Charles — ” 

“ Charles is engaged to Louisiana,” interrupted Mrs. 
Wall, promptly. 

“ Yes, and Louisiana is as much inferior to John as a 
wax baby is to a living one,” says Laura indignantly. 
“ All that Louisiana is consists in what is around her and 
on her. A beautiful, good-natured good-for-nothing ! 
There is nothing has lowered Charles in my opinion so 
much as for him actually to want to marry such a girl.!” 

“ Hush, Laura,” says her father at the head of the table, 
“ the servants might hear you !” for Laura has quite flash- 
ed up at the thought. 


Matrimonial. 


221 


The solemn fact, sir ! They would not have cared a 
straw for property themselves. They would have consent- 
ed to see Laura married to any poor but respectable man. 
But Charles ! That was another thing. To have him 
wedded to that rich, indolent, luxurious Louisiana was an 
idea they would once have scouted. But when they grew 
to know that their nephew actually could marry her if he 
would, their desire that he should gained upon them like 
an infatuation. In their own day they had known so much 
of the lack of money that for their nephew to possess it in 
abundance was a thing so unlike their own experience as to 
have the charm of splendid novelty — the aspect of enchant- 
ment. They did not deprecate his being called upon to en- 
dure hardness as a good soldier of Jesus Christ. Not at all. 
Oh, not at all ! And yet for him to be the master of a com- 
fortable house and hosts of servants, with an ample purse 
to relieve the destitute, entirely free from all the small in- 
cessant miseries of an insignificant and uncertain salary — 
there was a fascination in this they did not even endeavor 
to resist. They had both, silently but entirely, set their 
hearts upon the marriage. They took a pride in having 
Louisiana at the house, in seeing her at their modest table ; 
a pride in the very quantity of her jewelry, the richness of 
her silks, in her very indolence, even. Singular, but it was 
so very terrible — that “ screwin’ an’ twistin’ and pinch in’, 
turnin’ your things inside out an’ upside down until they’re 
worn act’lly outT as Mrs. General Likens said. Nero’s 
wild beasts tearing the Christians in the arena hurt them, 
even when the screams were transfigured, between the in- 
stant of feeling the pain and the after-instant of uttering 
the same, into psalms or prayer. 

And there is Mrs. General Likens. All her dread in re- 
gard to John is lest she should marry some poor man — a 
poor preacher being the worst possible species of a poor 


222 


The New Timothy. 


man. John was to many young Burleson — that was her 
settled plan. Her young pastor was to marry Louisiana 
Mills; if not, there was Araminta Allen — rich, even if 
she did use snulF. “ Snuff?” Mrs. General Likens had re- 
marked. “ Goodness knows, it’s a most a universal thing 
among the ladies in this one of the Southern States, an’ a 
minister’s wife oughtn’t to be too unlike other people. 
Dare say the Yankees do worse !” So that it was only 
harping upon an old string when, that night at her table, 
she said to John: “Whatever you do, child, don’t you 
never marry a poor preacher !” 

“Why not, Mrs. General Likens?” says John. There 
was a gleam of fun in the corners of her lips, and the 
smallest possible fraction of a glance at young Mr. Wall, 
as she asked the question. “Perhaps it is only a preju- 
dice you have. You can have no reason for it, I am sure. 
How do you hnoio it is so terrible a thing ?” 

“ How do I know, child ?” exclaimed Mrs. General Li- 
kens, in astonished surprise. 

“ You have read about such things in books ; perhaps 
you have heard exaggerated stories from others,” explain- 
ed John — mischief in her glance, as she said this, and plait- 
ing the table-cloth with downcast eyes. 

The General turned slowly from the table towards the 
lire, pipe in hand. With a fatM fascination Mr. Wall takes 
a seat by his side. “ I’m gettin’ to be an old lady now,” 
said Mrs. General Likens, plaintively, after a considerable 
pause. “My opportunities ha’n’t been very grand, but 
I’ve used what I had.” 

“ Old ’oman, I wouldn’t !” interrupted her husband at 
this juncture. “ Mrs. Merkes is happy up among the saints 
in heaven now. What’s the use ?” 

“ I must. General, I must. Tt’s not pleasure, I’m sure, it’s 
duty,” said his wife, with a show of deference to her hus- 


Mrs. General Likens’s Recollections. 


223 


band, a deference which John and Charles had observed to 
have singularly increased in the last few months. “ You 
must let me, General, if it’s only this once. Didn’t I know 
her well, poor thing ? Didn’t I know him 

The General subsided as if into sombre reflections. It 
’was too portentous. No one spoke. Mrs. General Likens 
breaks the silence at last : “ ‘ No ; I hnev) you wouldn’t be- 
lieve it, ma’am ; but I was as ruddy and stout a woman as 
you’d ever want to see,’ she says, says she to me. ‘I’ve 
tried and tried to stand up against it,’ says she. ‘ On my 
bended knees, morning an’ night — often through the day — 
I’d drop down by the cradle, and cry and pray when baby 
was asleep and the other children was out. I got some 
help that way. But, then, month after month, year after 
year, it wears — it wears one so,’ says she.” 

“Excuse me — says who?” inquired Mr. Wall. 

“Mrs. Merkes, of course,” rei3lies Mrs. General Likens. 
“Not that she came out so at first. No, she was as re- 
served as could be for months after she first settled here. 
Bless you, we all knew it, but not from her. If there ever 
was a good woman she was. It happened in this way : I 
was over there one morning. One of the black ones went 
with me to carry a quarter of beef, and I went over with 
the saltpetre an’ molasses an’ things to show her how to 
corn it. It was so I came in on her a little sudden. She 
was setting on her low rocking-chair by the cradle, trying 
to rock that poor little scrap of a Lucy of theirs asleep. 
Mary, Alexander, and Samuel — he was the oldest — were 
ofi* somewhere. 

“John, child,” added Mrs. General Likens at this junc- 
ture, “ please step into the linen-closet and get me another 
towel. You see,” hastily whispered Mrs. General Likens, 
during J ohn’s absence, “ Mrs. Merkes was expectin'^ — 
couldn’t go out them days — ahem ! She had been cryin’ 


224 


The New Timothy. 


liard^'' continued she, as John returned. “ All day it look- 
ed like she tried to hold herself in for a while. Well, I 
didn’t notice. I had brought over a pair of red shoes for 
whichever of the children they might fit. That amused 
Lucy, playing wdth them in her cradle. After a while we 
got into a kind of cosy chat. I saw it coming in her eyes 
while I was talking, minutes before it arrived. At last she 
jest up an’ told me all. How they was married ; it seem- 
ed ages an’ ages back, she said. How they was settled in 
some place, I’ve forgotten the name. They’d a home of 
their own there, bought with her money ; he had nothing 
from the start — bless you, in debt for his education at that. 
She told me how nicely she fixed up the place, flower-gar- 
den, little lawn in front, an’ all. How she tried to please 
the people and make him popular. ‘ And Mr. Merkes was 
a better preacher then than people seem to think him now,’ 
she said. It was before his troubles had soured him and 
hardened him, and worried all his life out, almost, I suppose 
she meant. All about the Sunday-school, Serving Society, 
and all, she told me, too. How, jest when Samuel, their 
first baby, was born, came a quarrel with the people — some- 
thing about their having a melodeon in the choir, or such 
like. How her husband resigned his pulpit one day in a 
huff ; wouldn’t listen to any thing from any body ; sold 
the pretty place for nigh nothing, to get right away. And 
it’s been so ever since. ‘ Mrs. General Likens,’ says she, 
‘it was the first and last home of our own we ever had.’ 
And then she went on to tell me how they moved to this 
place and that place, and the other. Pleasant at first. 
Then a quarrel was sure to come. It was about the choir, 
or it was about the Sabbath-school, or about the hour when 
service ought to begin, or ought not to begin, or about the 
salary, or about something a little too severe Mr. Merkes 
had said in the pulpit or out of it. Trouble, trouble, quar- 


The Reverend Mr. Merkes. 


225 


rel, quarrel, all the time ! I never heard such a pitiful 
story. She knew she oughtn’t to be talking so ; but she 
kept on only the faster. Seemed to me as if she’d kept it 
to herself and thought it over until she was too full. 
When once she began she couldn’t stop. It all came out 
in spite of her.” 

“ Why didn’t the man lay aside his profession, roll up 
his sleeves, and go at some other business, if he didn’t suc- 
ceed in that ?” asked the General, meditatively. 

“ I’m astonished at you. General,” said his wife. “ That 
was his calling. He would have felt like Jonah flying from 
his work ; would have been miserable, expecting the storm 
and the whale every hour. 

“ And I asked Mrs. Merkes. ‘ Teaching ?’ says she ; 
‘ he’s tried that often. If possible, it’s worse than preach- 
ing. It’s more worrying. Besides, Mr. Merkes was cer- 
tain to make some of the parents mad about something in 
the school-room. And then, when he came to settle up the 
tuition bills, there was sure to be a difficulty.’ ” 

“But there are other occupations,” began the young 
minister. 

“ Yes, yes ; I told her so,” continued Mrs. General Likens, 
hastily. ‘ No, ma’am,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘ Here’s 
a young man enters college, say at eighteen ; studies for 
the ministry there and in the Seminary some six years or 
more in all, steady along. When he comes out a preacher 
he must be fitted for that, for it unfits him for any thing 
else in the world ! He don’t understand any other busi- 
ness. More than that, he don’t understand As to 

any bodily labor, one day’s work with axe or hoe’s sure to 
lay Mr. Merkes up for a week ; partly because he ain’t 
used to it ; partly because he got dyspeptic overstudying 
himself. Wherever money’s concerned, too — making bar- 
gains, collecting, any thing of the kind — he’s sure to lose !’ ” 

15 


226 


The New Timothy. 


“ Way with all preachers,” murmured the General. 
“So little accustomed to handling it.” 

“ ‘ Ah, there’s the misery of it, Mrs. General Likens,’ she 
says to me. ‘Mr. Merkes is unhappy as a preacher; hut 
it’s that or nothing else. Wretched in it ; more wretched 
out of it ! And then there’s the salary,’ she says to me ; 
‘ some people look on Christmas as a happy time. It’s just 
the worst of all the year to us. The salary is so small at 
best. And when the time comes to get it in the officers 
of the church and Mr. Merkes have to go over the subscrip- 
tion-paper. This name can’t pay — lost too much money 
during the year some way; this one finds he can only pay 
half he promised, and hard work to do that ; this next one 
wull try and see what he can do. The next one is that man 
who took such offense at something the minister said, or 
his wife said, or the man’s children told him the minister’s 
children said. Next man can’t stand such preaching; 
don’t catch him coming to hear him again, much less pay. 
This next family on the paper has moved away. That 
other family was carried off since it subscribed by some 
other denomination ; and so on and so on. Settling up, 
Mrs. General Likens,’ says she, ‘ for last year’s bad enough, 
but the making up the salary for the next year — oh me ! 
Officers of the church go at it from a dreadful sense of 
duty only, hunting people down, reasoning with this man, 
cornering that man — squeezing them to subscribe. Just 
fancy your husband, Mrs. General Likens,’ says she, ‘ you 
just fancy the General up that way on the block at New- 
Year’s like a nigger, being excepted to, and run down, and 
higgled over !’ and she would have cried, only the tears 
were all shed already. I do believe she really loved her 
husband, and he icas a good man — a real pious man, though 
a mighty poor preacher, whatever he may have been ; un- 
interesting, you know. ‘ If they could only not tell Mr. 


Me. Meekes’s Teials. 


227 


Merkes so much,’ she said. ‘ But, then, he needn’t tell you 
about it,’ says I. ‘ It’s his disposition to talk over his 
slights, to dwell on them,’ says she ; ‘ seems to take a kind 
of satisfaction in it. Tell them!’ says she; ‘why, unless 
I was stone-blind I couldn’t help reading it all in his face 
at table, in his manner to me and the children, to say noth- 
ing of his groaning and twisting about in bed ail night.’ 
‘ Why don’t he jump on a horse and ride ’round, exercise — 
brighten himself up ?’ says I. ‘ But where’s the horse ?’ says 
she. ‘ He couldn’t aiford to buy one ; and if he did, he 
couldn’t pay for provender for one. He can’t afford, even, 
to buy a watch ; that keeps him nervous and guessing on 
Sabbaths lest he’s too late for church ; and it’s impossible 
for him to tell, except by people gettin’ up and going out, 
Avhether or no he isn’t preaching too long. A horse !’ says 
she. ‘I tell you, Mrs. General Likens, the dyspepsy he got 
in the Seminary’s the cause of all his trouble. After he’s 
been recreating a little, for a week or so, he’s fifty times 
brighter and happier, in the pulpit and out of it — only it’s 
not often he gets the chance. poverty that crushes Mr. 
Merkes !’ she says, ‘ an’ keeps up his dyspepsy — long-con- 
tinued It’s that keeps him awake all night ; it’s 

that makes him preach the dull sermons the people com- 
plain of ; it’s that makes him seem gloomy and sour ; it’s 
that is stamped so into his face. He’s struggled and pray- 
ed against anxious care for the morrow ; but then his chil- 
dren and his mortifications and his slights and his debts 
year after year, seem killing his very soul, with all the 
faith in it. You see, a minister’s calling is a peculiar one, 
Mrs. General Likens,’ says she. ‘ What with studying his 
sermons, visitin’ the sick and dyin’, burying the dead, con- 
soling the survivors, dealing with backsliders, struggling 
with the anxious — a thousand times more anxious about 
them than they are about themselves; describing what 


228 


The New Timothy. 


heaven is like and hell, and all that — his feelings are on a 
terrible strain and stretch all the time ! They get to be 
too much brought out, too much on the skin ! He can’t get 
hardened like a doctor does — it’s spiritual concerns, eternal 
matters, the soul, God, heaven, hell, that his mind is strain- 
ing at all the time. Unless his body’s strength is kept up 
to the pitch of his mind it gets nervous, irritable, worn out. 
That’s the way, Mrs. General Likens,’ says she, ‘ the wick- 
ed report got out about his whipping our Samuel so severe. 
He never intended it, but he was so worried just then about 
that Amelia Ann matter and Araminta Allen’s terrible to- 
do about it. If it was only the custom for ministers to 
keep their hody in full health — if they could afford it only. 
I car^t think, Mrs. General Likens,’ says she, ‘ that our 
Heavenly Father intends his servants should drag along 
that way ; it cripples them so, you see, for His service ! 
Besides — ’ ” 

Come now, Polly, that’s enough,” interposed the Gen- 
eral. “Do let’s talk of somethin’ more cheerful.” 

“ ‘ Three years ago he happened to get a wedding fee,’ 
says Mrs. Merkes,” continued Mrs. General Likens, not 
heeding the General’s expostulation. “‘Now wedding 
fees are always spent,’ says she, ‘ in buying actual neces- 
saries of life ; he always gives them to me, manages to bor- 
row them next day, however. This time he sends and has 
his life insured, brings me the policy to put away. I never 
knew him to take as much satisfaction in any thing as in 
that. “It’s a solid gratification to me ev’ry hour of the 
day, and when I lie awake at night,” says he. “I think, 
if I die, well, there’ll be something anyhow for you and 
the children — a little, but something'^'' — an’ he stooped 
down an’ kissed me on the forehead — first time he’d done 
that in months,’ she said. ‘ Well, Mrs. General Likens,’ 
says she, ‘ three months after he had to make another pay- 


Pastor and People. 


229 


ment or forfeit his policy. It was only some ten dollars or 
so, but he couldn’t raise it ; did his best ; couldn’t ! I 
don’t think I ever saw him more cut down in my life,’ says 
Mrs. Merkes. Don’t you ever marry a preacher, child !” 
said Mrs. General Likens, abruptly, almost savagely, to 
John. 

“ Do stop !” pleaded the General, despairingly. “ You’re 
one of Job’s comforters, to Mr. Wall here.” 

“ ‘ But why couldn’t he have asked some of his members 
for a loan, Mrs. Merkes ?’ said I,” Mrs. General Likens con- 
tinued. “ ‘ No, ma’am,’ says she. ‘ The moment a preach- 
er begins to beg this sum and that from members, he be- 
comes a bother an’ a trouble to them ; they lose all respect 
for him ; he is a burden ; a nuisance they’re impatient to 
get rid of. Mr. Merkes was cowed and tamed and whijo- 
ped down by poverty, but he couldn’t do that. He’s been 
waitin’ and hopin’ ; but he’s never had the money to get 
another policy since. He’s had wedding fees, but they had 
to go for things — shoes, clothes, pressin’ debts. And there’s 
one thing, Mrs. General Likens,’ says she ; ‘ it is the col- 
lections for Foreign Missions, Tract Societies, and the like. 
Mr. Merkes often and often preaches a sermon, and has a 
collection taken up in the church for this object an’ that; 
it’s a regular quarterly or monthly thing. After benedic- 
tion the officers count up the money they’ve got in the 
hats — a good deal of it given by peojDle that haven’t paid 
the pastor his dues for years. They get Mr. Merkes to 
mail the amount off to some society a thousand miles 
away, and the church owing him — he actually suffering 
the day he mails it for the money himself. It does seem 
to me as if they ought to pay their pastor first. Mr. 
Merkes ‘has often told me he’s tempted to grudge the very 
boy that sweeps the church, makes the fires, lights the 
lamps, the regular pay they give him every month, while 


230 


The New Timothy. 


hundreds of dollars are owing him — he needin’ his pay 
mor’n the boy needs his. You see the boy will stop right 
off if they don’t pay. Mr. Merkes can’t.’ ” 

“ But why does he not leave in such a case ?” asked the 
young minister, very indignant. 

“ Very question I asked Mrs. Merkes,” continued Mrs. 
General Likens. “ ‘ How can he ?’ she says ; ‘ no invita- 
tion to any other field ; nowhere to go ! If he had, no 
money to move on. And how about his debts ? Leave 
them unpaid behind him? No, ma’am, a martyr — and 
chained to his stake !’ says she. ‘Oh, Mrs. General Li- 
kens,’ says she ; ‘ if t please God Mr. Merkes was only a 
farmer, raisin’ his corn and his punkins on a little patch of 
ground — serving his Master that way ! I’ll tell you, Mrs. 
General Likens,’ says she, growing kind of desperate ; 
‘ once I went off from home to spend the day. I forgot 
something, and had to go back to the house. You see, 
Mr. Merkes had no study but in the sitting-room, his books 
piled about here and there. He was glad to have me and 
the children get away occasionally — give him a good chance 
to study. That day I went back. I passed by the win- 
dow where he was. It was summer, and the window was 
up. I heard somethin’ like groanin’, an’ glanced in. There 
he was, lyin’ flat on the floor. The Bible was open before 
him, an’ he was agonizin’ in prayer. It curdled my blood 
to listen : “No blessing on my labors,” he groaned; “no 
sinners converted, no backsliders brought back, no interest 
in preaching or prayer-meeting — and my family!” he 
groaned ; and I knew well what he meant. “ And my 
debts, debts, debts !” he said. “ I want to do what is 
right !” he groaned. “ Take me to some other field,” he 
says ; “ or open the way for me to leave the ministry, or 
take me out of the world ! Am a husband! Am 2, father ! 
Can’t help myself!” he says. “At least make me submis- 


Modern Martyrs. 


231 


sive to Thy will !” I could only catch a word here and 
there,’ says she. ‘ I tell you, Mrs. General Likens,’ says 
she, ‘ it almost broke my heart, only it was nothing unex- 
pected to me. To see him with his thin, gray hair, and 
his pale, hollow face, and the tears running down, and he 
drawn up in a spasm of agony like on that floor ! I dare 
not run in to him. I didn’t know one single thing to say 
to encourage him, not one,’ she said. ‘ I felt so awful I 
could have screamed ! felt savage ; but what could I do ?’ 
she says, says she. ‘ The lady where I staid all day had a 
flne dinner; but it was little I could eat of it. I knoio I 
oughtn’t to tell you all I have, Mrs. General Likens,’ says 
she ; ‘ but it’s getting worse and worse every day. I do 
believe,’ she says, stopping solemnly in the midst of her 
tears, ‘ he must lose his mind if things go on so. He’s 
getting so w’akeful at night, so irritable, so nervous !’ 
Think he’s a peculiar case?” asked Mrs. General Likens 
warmly of her little audience. ‘‘ Don’t you believe it ! 
Among preachers everywhere there’s hundreds on hun- 
dreds of such Elijahs lyin’ groanin’ under juniper-trees. No, 
child,” said Mrs. General Likens, with a sudden applica- 
tion of her narrative to John ; “ don’t you ever, ever, ever 
marry a preacher !” 

A minister’s salary would do generally,” said the Gen- 
eral, during the pause which followed, “ if only it was paid 
at all regular. As it is he has to buy on a credit, an un- 
certain one at that, all his store things. The merchant he 
puts on so much over an’ above because it’s a credit bar- 
gain. If the parson only had his money in hand to buy 
with he could get every thing one-third cheaper. An’ 
then them debts, like a nightmare on a man ! Their rep- 
utation as a minister is so tied up in their payin’ their 
debts ; example to the flock, you know. My wonder is 
they can preach at all ! Poor sermons ? I don’t blame a 


232 


The New Timothy. 


man for one ; nine-tenths of his time an’ heart an’ brain 
given up to scuffling along, to say nothing of people crit- 
icising the sermons, contrary members, blunt-spoken church 
offlcers, an’ the like.” 

“James?” broke in Mrs. General Likens. “Yes, I did 
give my consent he should serve the Lord in the ministry, 
if it was God’s will. I couldn’t say yes for years. At 
last, that’s the reason, I thinks, the Lord won’t convert 
him. Better be converted, even if he does have to be a 
preacher, than not be converted at all, I says to myself. 
An’ so he was converted, sure enough ! I said yes to it ; 
but I thought. Oh, pshaw, we have plenty of property, he’ll 
have that to support on in his preachin’, I’m afraid that’s 
how I came to say yes. I know it’s mighty wicked in me 
to feel so,” continued Mrs. General Likens, ingenuously. 
“ If it was for him to go to China, India, or some other of 
the islands of the sea, I wouldn’t care. Or if it was to lay 
his head across a log an’ liave it chopped off for Christ 
right away, I wouldn’t care so ; but to be a preacher — de- 
spised like by outsiders an’ starved by insiders — worry, 
worry, bother, bother all the time — it was more than I had 
grace for about James.” 

“ Ev’ry preacher isn’t Mr. Merkes, however, Mr. Wall,” 
said the General, more thoughtful of his guest. “ Common 
run of people couldn’t like Mr. Merkes, that’s one reason in 
regard to him. An’ their not liking him was the protest 
like of Health against Disease ; the natural risin’ up like 
of simple, sweet, everyday kind of feelin’s against sour, 
sickly, unnatural ones. Now,” continued the General, 
“ there’s your uncle, for instance ; he isn’t worn to death 
all the time about money-matters — don’t look like it, at 
least.” 

Both John and the nephew winced. 

“Let me tell you the difference between them, General,” 


Taking Things. 


233 


spoke up John. “I believe almost every minister has 
more or less that kind of trouble, and all their life. But 
Mr. Merkes seems so constituted that such things strike 
into him — make a festering wound. They happen to Mr. 
Wall, too — perhaps so, I mean — only they glance off as 
they happen.” 

“ Holds up the Shield of Faith, I guess,” interjected 
Mrs. General Likens, wiping vigorously at the cups and 
saucers. 

“ I imagine Mr. Merkes takes any hint of a defect in him 
as an insult,” continued the fair philosopher. “Mr. Wall 
takes any such hint, if there ever is any, gladly as help to- 
wards raising him nearer his own standard. Mr. Merkes 
seems to be too sensitive and sore altogether to every 
thing — perhaps I wrong him.” 

“ And I believe,” said the nephew, “ my uncle sees the 
hand of a Father just as much in a needed sum of money 
withheld from him as in an unexpected sum received ; as 
much in any bitter remark against him as in a flattering 
one.” 

“ I’ve known that uncle of yours,” said the General, re- 
flectively, “ for years now, an’ through rain and shine he’s 
the happiest man I ever knew. Let us talk about Mm a 
little ; we’ve had enough about Mr. Merkes for once.” 

“No, we ha’n’t,” remarks his wife, promptly. “I ain’t 
satisfied till somebody explains things to me. Lo, I am 
with you always, the Saviour said. And all that Sermon 
on the Mount about the grass of the fleld, the lilies, the 
sparrows ; how cayi a man read that, an’ the like, over an’ 
over ; preach on it too, and not profit by it more himself? 
Nine-tenths of that man’s misery was in his moods, his — 
pshaw ! what you call it — fancies ? notions ? The Lord 
He always has provided. ‘ Love,’ says she to him, sittin’ 
by her bed that day she was dyin’, ‘ what a pity we 


234 


The New Timothy. 


couldn’t ’a trusted Him all along ; at last He did provide, 
you know !’ she says to him. ‘ If we only could ’a trust- 
ed in Him all along how much misery we would ’a saved 
ourselves ! Not that I blame you though, darling,’ she 
says, quick like. A-workin’ like new yeast, fermentin’ like 
I don’t know what, all the time he was. If he only could 
have gone sound asleep — staid asleep for a year ! Cross 
at Lucy just before he begins to say blessing at table ; 
boxes Alexander’s ears for dropping his fork the minute 
Amen’s out of his mouth ! Sour at his wife for not mak- 
ing Samuel still as a mouse in prayers ; putting that poor 
little pale-faced Lucy of theirs in the closet the moment 
he’s up from his knees at family worship because she drop- 
ped her little hymn-book ! Scold ? how he did scold be- 
cause the servant there broke in on him, in his private de- 
votions I believe it was !” the old lady even dares add. 

“ You seem to have known — ” began John, with a smile. 

‘‘ Yes, bless you, child, it was when his wife was sick ; 
you see I went over an’ staid there to nurse,” said Mrs. 
General Likens, the more rapidly as she was talking on 
against the tugging within of her own conscience. “ For 
months before Mr. Merkes had been worse than ever — 
bother about his salary, trouble with Araminta Allen about 
Amelia Ann ; then his rest was broken o’ nights by the 
children. Lucy’d get uncovered an’ cry with cold — whim- 
per — she didn’t dare to cry. Alexander, he’d get thirsty 
in bed, go stealing over the floor to the bucket, stumble 
over a chair, and wake up his father that way. Samuel, 
he’d cry out, seeing a booger — and so it went on : it al- 
most killed that man to have his sleep broken — his hrain 
needed it so, I suppose. Yes, it’ began months before Mrs. 
Merkes was so sick ; you see he had such a large family 
already^ he thought. Cross^ — !” 

‘ Polly, you stop !” said the General, decidedly. 


Some Conclusions. 


235 


“ Yes,” said bis wife, reining in and shaking her head 
slowly, her face full of reminiscences — “ yes, I had better 
— it’s all over now ; but at the time it was awful ! But, 
well ! ‘ I’m not sorry ; I’d rather it was so,’ she said. 

‘ It’s better in heaven ;’ that’s what she said when I told 
her the little baby was dead. She would take the poor 
little rat of a thing in her arms, hugged its little cold body 
a while to her bosom, an’ give it back to me. ‘ I’m not 
sorry,’ says she ; ‘ it oughtn’t to have come — too many be- 
fore.’ An’ I was not sorry,” said Mrs. General Likens, 
energetically, “when she died too — not a bit of it. ‘I 
don’t blame you at all, darling,’ she whispered to him. 
‘ You’ve had so much to try you. Please try, precious, 
to bear with the poor little children ; they couldn’t help 
coming, you know. Little Lucy, darling,’ she whispered 
to him, ‘ she’s such a poor, pale, frightened little scrap, 
please don’t — an’ she whispered so low I couldn’t hear; 
I was rubbin’ her limbs with brandy, you see. ‘ It’ll be 
all right,’ says she, ‘ when we all get together at last in 
heaven, precious. To him that overcometh will I give — I 
give,’ an’ she rambled off. 

“ Such a desolate house,” continued Mrs. General Likens, 
pausing to wipe her eyes, “ that cold, rainy mornin’ the 
corpse lay there on the lounge, I never want to see again — 
the poor children sticking close around the lounge, afraid 
of their father, so white and cold, sittin’ by the fire, a book 
in his hand. You see, Mrs. Merkes had been the only sun- 
shine in that house — a gentle little woman, tryin’ hard to 
hope for the best all the time. It provoked Mr. Merkes, 
her putting the best interpretation upon every thing that 
happened — it was contradictin’ him. When she saw that 
worried him too, she just kept silence, while he grumbled 
and murmured — tried to warm him by her silent smilin’, 
her cheerful looks. She hath done what she could. Yes, that 


236 


The New Timothy. 


might ’a been cut on her tomb. If he had only been the 
man she was a woman, now ! Fix up old clothes ! Make 
a little money stretch a mile ! Keep herself neat on just 
nothin’ at all ! I never did know such a woman !” said 
Mrs. General Likens, warmly. “Nobody ever quarrelled 
with her, Araminta Allen, even, bless you ! many an’ many 
a bolt of domestic, an’ barrel of flour, turkeys, butter, eggs, 
an’ all such like, she’s sent to her through me. Araminta’s 
tongue outruns every thing I ever heard when she gets to 
talking about Amelia Ann,” adds Mrs. General Likens. 
“ She was a little afeared of Mr. Wall, day she was here ; 
but she never had a word to say against Mrs. Merkes.” 

“What would you say, Mrs. General Likens,” said John, 
after a while, with laughing eyes, “ if Mr. Merkes was to 
marry in Hoppleton ? Laura Wall told me something 
when she was here.” 

“ You don’t mean to tell me Laura Wall is that crazy ?” 
ejaculated the lady of the house, laying down every thing 
out of her hands to lift them up in horror. 

“ Never mind ; who it is is a secret,” said John with de- 
light. “ If it turns out to be true, we’ll hear of it.” 

“ Well !” said Mrs. General Likens, bringing her hands 
slowly down — “ well ” — and she was silent for a space, “ I 
did hear that Josiah Evers was courtin’ Miss Laura,” said 
the old lady, at length, “ but Mr. Merkes ? leell^"^ and then, 
after another pause, she added : “ so you don’t marry a 
preacher, John, it’s all I ask.” 


About John. 


237 


Chapter XX. 

Something about John and Edward. 

TTOPPLETOX was astonished — John has gone away 
to teach ! 

“ People lie about my being cross with you,” Issells, the 
peevish tailor, remarks to his worn-out wife at supper, 
‘‘ and I ma^ be put out a little by the everlasting bother 
and misfortune I have, stitch, stitch, stitching all the time, 
sick or well ; peoj)le dissatisfied with their fits, people 
promising and not paying, and you sick all the time, of 
course ! as if I did not have worry enough without that ; 
but just look ! Think that girl didn’t have some good 
cause for leaving ? And he in the pulpit on Sundays 
preaching away his miserable stuff about love to God 
and love to man ! Hypocrites, the whole of them ! It’s the 
detestable cant in the world that is the cause of all the 
villainy in it ! Had my way, I’d sew them all up, preach- 
ers and the fools that listen to them, in sacks and pitch 
them into the Atlantic.” 

“What girl? I don’t know what you are talking 
about !” 

“What girl? The one living in that Preacher Wall’s 
family. She’s gone off somewhere to teach school. Cruel 
to her. I have no more doubt of it than I have of my 
own existence. As beautiful and patient-looking a young 
creature as I ever saw in my life. And there’s that 
daughter of his — old maid — comes to see you so much 
when you are sick, with her flowers and things — dare say 
she could tell a story if she would.” 


238 


The New Timothy. 


Mr. Josiah Evers, on hearing the same report, was sur 
prised. 

“ But she will make a splendid teacher,” was his thought. 
“ She is one of the kind that do not talk much — that rule 
by the eye instead. She can make them love and respect 
her. If ever a woman succeeds she will and Mr. Evers 
respected her that much the more than before. An ex- 
cellent teacher himself, he could judge of qualification in 
others. “ It shows, however, that she is as poor as I sup- 
posed. I am sorry, because I was almost ready to marry 
her,” he added, passing his right hand through his hair, 
and lingering with the fingers thereof among his scant 
whiskers. But here Mr. Josiah Evers’s thoughts took an 
indignant direction : “ Why don’t these people pay their 

minister better?” This was the less astonishing, however, 
from the fact that Mr. Evers had never as yet contributed 
a cent towards the salary of Mr. Wall himself. 

“ Gone off to teach, eh ?” Jack Clemur remarked, stirring 
the coals in the forge, while Lanny, his son, worked at the 
bellows. “Well, I’ve no objection. Teaching is easy 
work to sweating over the anvil, I guess. Hard work is 
the best thing in the world, especially for young people. 
And now, Lanny, I do sincerely hope you’ll be able to go 
to your own church on Sunday nights, instead of dressing 
up and going to Mr. Wall’s church for nothing else on 
earth but to see that Miss John, and to hear her sing. 
Do you think the Lord will ever bless you, pretending to 
worship him that way ?” 

Lanny had no words in reply. Since that tap upon the 
head from his father’s hammer, nothing had hurt him so 
much as her leaving. He worked on mechanically, but 
the world was for a time a wilderness to him. 

M^Clarke bewailed her leaving as the loss of the best 
voice — next to his own — in the choir. Even Anna Burle- 


Miss Anna Burleson. 


239 


son came over to Mr. Wall’s to try and persuade her out 
of the notion. 

“ Bug is bother enough for me. The idea of twenty lit- 
tle dirty-faced things to take care of, treading on your 
skirts, pulling at your dress with their sticky hands ! I 
solemnly declare,” said Miss Anna, with perfect sincerity, 
“ I w^ould rather lie down on the spot at once and die and 
be buried than teach school ! Don’t go, John dear. There 
is Bug in a perfect stew about it. I didn’t know the little 
ball of butter cared any thing but for cake before. As to 
Ned, of course he don’t say any thing, dear ! I declare I 
lay awake all last night expecting to hear a pistol go off 
in his room, or something. We love you, dear; you can’t 
tell how much. We hope — you know — never mind — ” 
and Miss Anna colored herself, if it was only as the reflec- 
tion of John’s face. Not a day but Miss Anna was becom- 
ing more acid in view of her wrongs, as poor Issells in 
view of his, but there was a freshness and sweetness about 
John that she could not resist. ‘‘There’s that Louisiana 
Mills,” Miss Anna continued. “ Lazy, fat, good-for-noth- 
ing thing. If that fS,ther of hers would make her lay off 
her fine dresses, and cut off some of that hair, and lock up 
a little of that jewelry, and go far away from home, where 
she would have to get up early and eat corn-bread and 
molasses, and teach forty children all day, it would do her 
some good.” 

Perhaps it would. But if her own father could have 
pursued some such course wflth Miss Anna herself — given 
something for her thoughts and temper to grind on be- 
sides herself, it might have been a blessing to her also. 
One thing her father did do, of which no one else save 
himself and his pastor were ever aware — that is, call upon 
that pastor in a quiet way just at that juncture, and beg 
his acceptance, as an addition to his salaiy, of a very 


240 


The New Timothy. 


round sum of money, according, at least, to village esti- 
mate. 

“ Thank you, Mr. Burleson — but no,” his pastor had said. 
‘‘ I dare say I know,” he continued, with a smile, “ the 
cause of your kindness. It is a delicate matter. It is not 
because she imagines herself at all a burden. She knows 
she is not. We have always loved her more than a daugh- 
ter ; she has been more assistance to us than most daugh- 
ters ever are. Gentle as she looks, amiable as she is, she 
inherits from her father a singular strength of character, a 
clearness and energy of purpose one would not imagine in 
a girl so young and so lovely. Her father was a — what 
you would call a first-class business-man. I don’t intend 
to flatter, but you remind me more of him than any man I 
know. I did not dream she had so much of her father in 
her, for she is the image of her mother, one of the loveliest 
of women. No. We have used every kind of persuasion 
with her in vain. Go she will, if only to give the matter a 
fair trial. She seems to have arranged it all when on a 
visit to General Likens ; did not let us know until it was 
all a settled thing. Do you know, Mr. Burleson,” said the 
pastor, in his frank, impulsive way, “I believe — at least 
Mrs. Wall thinks so, and ladies are wonderful judges in 
such matters — that a member of your family has something 
to do with her leaving.” 

“ Ned ?” exclaimed Mr. Burleson, with equal frankness. 
“ I only wish he could get her ! I don’t know what it is, 
there’s some screw loose about him — a sort of reckless, 
heedless, devil-may-care — a kind of scoffing — a lack of en- 
ergy, of purpose in life ; I hardly know what. There is 
something in that balk he made — I hardly know what else 
to call it — in religious matters years ago — you remember 
it — that has had a singular influence on him.” 

^‘Charles tells me,” said Mr, Wall, “it is because Ed- 


Edward Burlesox. 


241 


ward did not become a minister as he first intended. You 
know how intimate they are. I have conversed with him 
— Edward, I mean — several times. In fact, I wrote to him 
when he was in college. His religious condition is a singu- 
lar one — a state of suspended animation — almost petrifac- 
tion. I remember a singular remark he made to me the 
other day. His religious knowledge seemed so clear that 
I mentioned it to him — wondered how, with such distinct 
conceptions of Divine truth, he covldi feel so little. ‘ Your 
looking at religion,’ he said, ‘ is as at a landscape in all the 
verdure, and leaf, and flower of summer ; while I look on 
the same landscape under its winter aspect — no grass, or 
leaf, or flower, to obstruct the view — every stone on tlie 
ground, every twig and bough distinctly visible in the 
cold clear air !’ It made me shudder. ‘ All winter, only, 
with me,’ he said. The fact is,” continued the pastor, “ if 
a young man once fully resolves to preach the Gospel, 
with such a view as Edward had of the supreme dignity 
and grandeur of the work, and then fails, from almost any 
cause, to carry out his purpose, he is singularly unfitted 
thereby — pardon me — for being any thing else. Unless 
greed of money, from which your son is free, takes its 
place, every other aim seems low, every other motive pow- 
erless. His heart is dead ! Only for the time, I hope !” 
the pastor added, earnestly. 

“ He never talks with me on such matters,” said the fa- 
ther. “ I don’t understand him. He has mind enough — 
more than I have, for that matter — but you can’t get him to 
apply it steadily in any direction. He has heart a plenty ; 
yet he has, or affects to have, a perfect heartlessness in re- 
gard to every thing. He distresses me ! And I fear he is 
growing worse and worse. I would not speak of it to any 
one but yourself — not even Mrs. Burleson — but I am con- 
stantly in dread lest he should take to drinking or gam- 

16 


242 


The New Timothy. 


blinsr. I have a va2:ue terror. He is so uncertain there is 
no telling any day what he may not do !” and the pastor 
noticed for the first time in the clear, somewhat hard face 
of the bank president, those dark lines at the corners of the 
eye, the lengthening shadows as of a setting sun, the hair- 
breadth droop at the corners of the mouth as from the 
tasting of a bitter cup. To think how one’s hand may be 
full of gold, and the heart — so to speak — at the roots of 
the arm, full of wretchedness. Mr. Burleson was the rich- 
est man in Hoppleton, but there were happier homes in 
Hopple ton by far than his. 

‘‘ I do not know how the idea has crept into my mind,” 
says the bank president at last, “ but I have taken a singu- 
lar fancy to Miss John. If any thing could have influence 
upon Ned I do believe it would be some such woman as 
she seems — she is so young — is going to be. Her solid 
sense would be dower enough. I would consent to such a 
thing with all my heart. I only hope he may succeed. 
But I dare not let him know it ; he is so contrary it would 
be the very way to prevent it. But the woman that mar- 
ries Ned will have to take her chances in regard to him. 
He may be all she could wish — he may turn out — Ah, 
well, we will talk of something else.” 

Mr. Wall had been on the point of saying something of 
his own happiness in his nephew. It would hardly be ap- 
propriate just now, he thinks, and only says, “ There is 
Cliarlos, now. I only wish he had the practical sense, in 
worldly things at least, of Edward. We shut our candi- 
dates for the ministry up in a seminary by themselves for 
years, just Avhen they are forming their habits for life. 
For whole years they are associated only with their pro- 
fessors and themselves — monks almost. There must be 
terrible error in our system. They come out too often en- 
feebled for life in health, separated in feeling and habits 


Hopes and Foeebodings. 


243 


from the people, scholastic, deficient in common - sense. 
One thing, however ; if there is sound piety in the heart, 
and fixed purpose to live for God and man in the soul, a 
young man will in the end adapt himself, correct him- 
self—” 

“ A living piety at heart, a fixed purpose in life,” inter- 
rupted Mr. Burleson — “ exactly, and I dare say your neph- 
ew has it. There is nothing you may not hope for him in 
the future on that account. But, unfortunately, piety and 
purpose are just what Edward lacks. 'No definite course 
before him in life — no power in him to impel him along 
that course, even if he had one.” 

However that might be, young Burleson found path and 
purpose enough to arrive from Hoppleton at General Lik- 
ens’s front gate early one Saturday afternoon soon there- 
after. 


244 


The New Timothy. 


Chapter XXL 

Mr. Edward Burleson drinks deep of Helicon. 

^^HAT young Burleson!” whispered Mrs. General Li- 
kens’s prophetic soul as soon as she saw — she was 
knitting upon the front piazza — the buggy turn into view 
up the road, long before she could see who was in it. “Just 
as I knew — exactly 1” Mrs. General Likens exclaimed to 
herself, as that gentleman drew up at the gate, alighted, 
fastened his horse, and entered. Mrs. General Likens took 
a fresh needle to her knitting and looked approvingly upon 
him as he approached. She was glad to see him because 
he fulfilled her standing prophecy, and because there was 
no one at home to talk to him but herself. 

“ Don’t be afraid, Mr. Burleson,” she said, without rising ; 
“ w^alk in. Our dogs don’t bite. We had one in Virginia 
once — Tige we called him — bit a stage passenger, and the 
General he killed him. How’s all ?” 

“ I had some business in the neighborhood. Madam. As 
I had to jDass I thought I would stof) a while,” fibbed 
Burleson, after due salutations. “ The General is well, I 
hope ?” 

Mrs. General Likens scoffed inwardly at the plea of 
business, and informs the anxious applicant that the Gen- 
eral is not well. “ Some trouble in the chest,” she explains. 
“ It’s only of late. The General’s hardly ever known what 
you may call a sick day. It must be his constant smokin’ 
injures him. The doctor said so. He tried to give up his 
pipe. ‘ Pshaw — stuff!’ he says at last. ‘ Remedy’s worse 


That Young Burleson. 


245 


than the disease. An’ so he’s been smokin’, if possible, 
more’ll ever.” 

“ Is he at home this afternoon ?” asks Burleson, not car- 
ing the millionth part of a straw whether he is or not. 

“ No,” replies the wife, perfectly aware of it. “ He went 
over to Araminty Allen’s — remember you met her when 
you were here last — wore a crimson dress — soon after 
breakfast. Araminty is there alone by herself She has I 
don’t know how many black ones, and always in a snarl 
with them about something. The General has to go over 
almost every day to fix things up. He has a wonderful 
faculty managing hands, because he don’t say much to them 
— don’t allow them to say much to him. But Araminty 
she will talk to them, and they scare her. I’m mistaken if 
that yellow Phillis of hers — her cook woman — didn’t do 
something more than scare her last night. Araminty was 
to have company to-day — and them’s just the very times 
cooks pick out for a fuss. Anyhow, a boy rode over to 
get the General to ride over there with Miss John when 
she went — she was to spend the day there.” 

“ That reminds me,” said Burleson. “ How is Miss John 
by this time ? Mr. Wall’s family will be asking after her 
when I return.” 

“ Well, I can’t entirely say,” replied Mrs. General Likens, 
carefully impressing him with the idea that the lady in- 
quired after was in rather a precarious condition than other- 
wise. “ I can’t say I know for certain that she uses snuff,” 
continued the old lady, pausing on her needles to reflect ; 
“ but she associates with Araminty a great deal, or rather, 
Araminty associates with her all the time, an’ Araminty she 
uses snuff constant. Yes, snuff and Amelia Ann, an’ the 
way Mr. Merkes talked about Amelia Ann at the funeral — 
you heard about it ? — are about all Araminty Allen lives 
on. She’s mighty apt to have got in the habit — the snuff 


246 


The j^ew Timothy. 


I mean — with her — mighty apt ! People say it ruins the 
complexion — Araminty is sallow enough, goodness knows 
— makes a body histeriky an’ cross. They tell me it 
makes the hair come out by handfuls, spoils the teeth, in- 
jures one’s lungs. Do you know whether it is so, Mr. 
Burleson ?” she asks, with an anxious face but a laughing 
soul. 

Mr. Burleson does not know the exact eifects. He is 
positively certain it is, however, a most disgusting habit 
in every respect. 

“And there’s early risin’ too, continued Mrs. General 
Likens. “ I always had to get up early, I know, when I 
was a girl — have had it to do ever since. It distresses me 
about Miss John; she won’t get up early, do all I can. 
I’ve talked an’ talked an’ talked to her about it, but she 
won’t. Get all sallow sleepin’ till nigh sun up ? of course.” 
And the old lady seemed really distressed. John was not 
an ethereal nymph ; like every other merely human being, 
she had her faults. And this was one of them — she did 
not rise habitually before the dawn. 

“ And then her drawers !” continued Mrs. General Li- 
kens ; “ they really grieve me. I’m speaking in confidence 
to a friend now, you know ; of course you won’t mention 
it in Hoppelton,” said the old lady, looking at her guest 
while she knitted evenly on. “They are large enough, 
I’m sure, and she’s got plenty of them; but she won’t 
keep them in what I call order, now. A good deal at six- 
es and sevens. And she’s as neat as can be about her per- 
son, too. It must be Mrs. Wall was such an invalid all 
the time. Or because that Miss Laura Wall is so extra 
neat in all her ways — old maids always are — she kept 
things neat after her. Ah well ! we can’t expect perfec- 
tion. An’ she isn’t fond of knittin’ nor darnin’ nor quilt- 


Teaching and Peeaching. 


247 


Imperfection again. By no means the Rosa Matilda of 
romance — flesh and blood, and not at all faultless. 

“ But that isn’t to compare with using snuff, in my opin- 
ion. Do you think Mr. Wall, now — the uncle, I mean — 
would object if they knew it ? You see,” the old lady ex- 
plains, “ it’s true she lives in our house, an’ we think the 
world of her; but whether we can take any authority 
over her is the question.” 

Mrs. General Likens must have been — in fact, she was — 
a terrible lassie in her teens. The General could bear wit- 
ness to that fact — a nice time he had of it during his 
courtship. 

“ Will Miss John return this evening ?” Burleson asks 
at last, with some afiectation of indifference. 

“ Back this evening ?” the old lady pauses in her knit- 
ting to weigh the probabilities. “ Well, maybe so. I 
didn’t ask her. Araminty will keejD her if she can.” 

‘‘And how does she succeed in teaching?” asked Bur- 
leson at length, not by any means as cheerful as when he 
entered the house. 

“ Ah ! what could one expect ?” replies Mrs. General 
Likens, sorrowfully. “ I gave her fair notice before she 
came. ‘ Child,’ says I, ‘ why, your voice ’ll get cracked 
with scolding, an’ your eyes ’ll get red with cryin’ o’ 
nights, an’ your hands ’ll get hard with slappin’.’ I told 
her then she’d ruin all her good looks. ‘ It’ll break you 
so in one session you’ll be an old maid for the rest of your 
days, child, certain sure,’ I said. She didn’t believe me ; 
perhaps,” added the old lady, with ominous emphasis, “ she 
has learned since whether or no I was right.” 

“And she has found it as unpleasant as you described?” 
asked Burleson, almost as miserable as Mrs. Likens was en- 
deavoring to make him. 

“ Why, Mr. Burleson !” exclaims the old lady. Of 


248 


The New Timothy. 


course you know, every body knows, what teachin^ is in 
the South. Josiah Evers — he tried it here once, poor fel- 
low — says they manage it dif’rent at the North where he 
was raised. It’s to be hoped they do ! If you pleaee the 
children, that is, let them have their own way in school, 
they’ll all run over you torectly — won’t learn a single 
thing. Their parents ’ll say it’s no use sending, teacher 
ain’t worth any thing, an’ so that ’ll break up your school. 
If you try to make the children mind — a thing they never 
began to do at home — an’ whip, you’ll have to fight to see 
which is the strongest. Suppose you conquer ? they’ll go 
home, tell their Pa’s and Ma’s you almost killed them, an’ 
that ’ll break up your school. Even if none of that hap- 
pens, an’ you slave through the session, worried to death 
from morning till night, come to collect what is due you, 
it’s about the hardest work you ever undertook in yoiLV 
life. School-bills and minister’s salary is about the very 
last people like to pay. Even if you are the best teach- 
er in the world, they are sure to get tired of you by the 
end o’ one year at longest. You know how it is in this 
country — people like to be changin’ their doctor, and 
changin’ their preacher, and changin’ their teacher all the 
time. I’ve seen enough of it in my days,” says Mrs. Gen- 
eral Likens, knitting furiously in her earnestness — “ preach- 
er has a hard enough time of it, goodness knows, but teach- 
er’s is hardest. I’d rather scrub floors, I’d rather maul 
rails, I’d rather do any thing in this world for a livin’ than 
teach school ! Never knew a teacher yet didn’t hate 
teachin’ !” and Mrs. General Likens only told the honest 
truth of that section. It was largely on this account that 
all her friends had so opposed John in her undertaking, 
nor would she have entered upon it had there been any 
other possible pursuit open before her. She regarded it 
as a martyrdom, and deliberately entered upon it as such. 


Bukleson’s Strategy. 


249 


As it was, his hostess succeeded perfectly in making her 
visitor unhappy. Was Mrs. General Likens really so pro- 
found a tactician ? Did she indeed remember that pity is 
near akin to love ? And was she endeavoring to rouse the 
first feeling in the lover’s bosom to its deepest depth that 
liis love might be quickened? Who knows? 

But Mrs. General Likens forgets that her guest is a law- 
yer in embryo. As such, taking up a vague idea that the 
lady of the house is hostile to his intentions upon her fair 
inmate, he determines by a bold move to win her over. 
Gradually he changes the conversation from John altogeth- 
er. He compliments her upon the pleasant situation of the 
farm, upon the fatness of the cows down the lane; he en- 
vies her her bees ; he alludes to the excellence of her free- 
stone well water, declares he must really take a third drink 
out of the nice gourd : “ We don’t have such water as 
this in Hoppleton, Madam.” But no impression is made ; 
he is lawyer enough to know it. He glances desperate- 
ly around — “ A noble orchard. Madam !” 

“ Only tollable,” is the cold reply. 

Would it do to venture on her yarn ? “I 'wonder if -it 
will be possible. Madam, to get you to sell me a few hanks 
of that yarn ?” he asks after a while. I could not make 
my sister a more acceptable present ; she has searched all 
the stores in Hoppleton in vain — there is none worth any 
thing to be had. Is it possible you spun it yourself?” 
handling the same admiringly. It is an awful falsehood. 
His sister never knit a stocking in her life — abhorred it as 
having some indefinable connection with gray hairs, specta- 
cles, and a single life. He sees that he has touched Mrs. 
General Likens a good deal more than she shows, for she 
is perfectly aware of his manoeuvres. But he has not 
struck the right string yet. He reflects a moment. Ex- 
actly ! he has it at last ! 


250 


The Neav Timothy. 


“ But I stopped on purpose to speak about one thing 
with you, Madam,” he says, drawing a little nearer, throw- 
ing truth utterly to the wdnds, and speaking seriously. “ I 
am glad no one else is here, and I must speak before w^e 
are interrupted. It is a delicate matter. Madam. I know 
that persons gifted in that way are peculiarly unwilling 
even to be justly praised — shrink, in fact, from any men- 
tion of the thing. You see. Madam, I am well acquaint- 
ed with the editors of both the papers in Hoppleton, 
and I am anxious the world should know something of 
your talent. You remember that basket. Madam ? I wish 
you could have seen us gathered around it that day when 
we stopped at noon ! I dare say it was intended for Miss 
John alone. Knowing your delicacy of feeling, she hesi- 
tated some time before she would let us enjoy the treat 
with her. Will you permit me to say all I wish in the 
matter? For force of expression, for beauty of language, 
for copiousness — especially copiousness ! — but I am 
afraid—” 

Yes, it teas monomania. The shrewdest old lad}^ that 
ever lived — it must have been insanity, or she would have 
seen through it, admirably w^ell as the unprincipled young 
lawyer acted his part. As it was, she was taken as a bird 
in the snare of the fowler. She even forgot the existence 
of any motive to prompt him thus to flatter. Yes — Wal- 
jiole w^as right. All you have to do is to discover the kmd 
of coin which will buy up a person body and soul ! Mrs. 
General Likens had this, at least, in common with Homer 
and Milton — she too was blind. 

“ But, if it is not a secret of your wonderful gift,” said 
Burleson, at last, after hearing the much she had to say, 
after listening to several poems of her writing, with, in 
every sense of the word, the most painful attention, “ how 
do you manage, my dear Madam, to compose ?” 


Tactics. 


251 


“ Blank verse, you mean ?” asked his hostess, unhinged 
additionally in mind by excess of delight, and whose whole 
heart w^as open to the tempter. “ Why, I take a quire of 
foolscap — foolscap for blank verse always — begin at the 
top of the page, and write straight on till my fingers get 
too tired, or till the General just up an’ insists on my coin- 
in’ to bed. You see I only write at night.” 

“ And how about the rhyme ?” 

“ I take letter-paper to that. You would think to find 
words to rhyme together w^ould make hard Avork. But it 
don’t. Besides, in finding the Avord to rhyme, it brings its 
OAvn idea Avith it, and so helps amazin’ly. Here’s this poem 
I’ve just read to you about that Ishmael Spang’s to-do up 
here at our church. I took this quire of letter-paper that 
night, set doAvn after the General Avas in bed, dipped my 
pen in the ink, an’ Avrote, Avithout stoppin’ a moment to 
think, this first line : 

“ ‘For pious folks to fight an’ quarrel — ’ 

Noav for something to rhyme to quarrel. Here’s the way 
I ahvays do: begin at the first of the alphabet an’ run 
doAvn — borral, corral, dorral, forral, gorral, horral, jorral, 
korral, moral — Stop, I says, moral ? Let me see ; yes, an’ 
^mmoral; that rhymes pat. Noav see how the rhymin’ 
word brings its OAvn idea Avith it. Immoral ! yes ; 

“ ‘For pious folks to fight an’ quarrel, 

It is exceedin’ly immoral.’ 

See ?” 

Burleson nods his head in dumb assent. He does not 
dare to raise his eyes or open his lips. 

Now next,” continues the beloAxd of the Muses, with 
almost Sapphic frenzy, I write doAvn this next line Avith- 
out stopping a minute to think what is to come after it — ■ 
rises like water in a well : 

“ ^ With* staff he has to guide his tread ’ — 


252 


The New Timothy. 


What is to rhyme to tread ? When I wrote it I had no 
more notion than you have this minute. It comes to me !” 
adds the pythoness, touching her finger to her brow with 
awful meaning. “Tread? tread? Now you’d suppose 
I’d begin at top of the alphabet as I did before — bred, 
cred, dred, and so on down. No ; you see I must have va- 
riety. It’s that gives a sparkle like to poetry. I’ll tell 
you : every other time I begin at the bottom of the alpha- 
bet an’ go up. Now here I’ve got to find a rhyme to 
Tread, Tread ? Lemme see — zed, yed, wed, ved, ted, sted 
— sted ? Ah yes ! there it is — instead, instead ! An’ see 
how the word brings its own help with it — its own particu- 
lar idea — an’ I write it under the other in a flash. Tlien 
both lines read : 

“ ‘ With staff he has to guide his tread 
Each knocks his neighbor down instead.’ 

See ?” 

In the fullness of her soul there is no imagining when 
the poetess will stop. Burleson has already made repeat- 
ed efibrts to this end : they were but straws tossed in- 
stantly aside in the rush of the waters of Helicon. Like 
the magician in the story, he has raised the demon — how 
to lay it is altogether beyond his might. He is becoming 
alarmed. The exertion is beyond his strength. Glad 
sounds to his ear — the wheels of a vehicle approaching ! 
Mrs. General Likens hears them too. Instantly the poetic 
fire pales on her brow, stern common-sense is about to re- 
sume its inexorable sway. 

“ I see we are goin’ to be interrupted,” she says, with 
profoundest regret, as she gathers the precious MS. togeth- 
er. “It’s always so! Never mind — we’ve had a few 
pleasant minutes any how ” — two hours nearly by Burle- 
son’s watch. “We won’t let you off till Monday any way. 
I’ve got ever so many pieces are entirely suitable for the 


Edward and John. 


253 


Sabbath. I’ll read them all to you some time to-mor- 
row !” 

“ If you do, it will be because my horse founders to-night, 
or whirlwinds wreck my buggy,” thinks Burleson, while 
he utters only his ardent thanks, and, as Mrs. General Li- 
kens proceeds to replace her treasures in the dark closet 
under the stairs, Burleson stands in the doorway of the 
piazza to greet the arrival. The General assists his fair 
passenger from out the Jersey wagon. There is no step, 
and the General has almost to take her out in his sturdy 
arms. Burleson hastens to his aid. It is many weeks 
since he has seen her ; he wonders. The young lady takes 
off her sun-bonnet as she enters the gate. Lawyer as he 
is, he can not conceal his astonishment at the change 
wrought in her even during that short time. She is dress- 
ed somewhat more plainly than he has ever seen her be- 
fore. But her face, her whole person, in fact — Burleson 
forgets that she was when he last saw her just at the criti- 
cal turning-point from girlhood to maidenhood. She is 
now a lovely woman, the loveliest he has ever seen. Her 
life for the last few weeks has brought determination to 
her lip and purpose to her eye. There is a deeper flush 
of health upon her cheek, more ease and grace in her step. 
Burleson forgets that Mrs. General Likens has hurried 
away her papers and has returned expressly to watch 
how he will note the change in her charge. The old lady 
feels amply repaid for her deception practised upon him 
as she observes the expression of his face. 

But Miss John does not color at all as much as that lady 
expected when she recognizes Burleson. Mrs. General 
Likens understands the female heart as much as any one 
can understand that complex mystery, and she is perplex- 
ed at John’s whole manner, so calm, so self-possessed to- 
wards her “ Hoppleton beau,” as Mrs. General Likens des- 


254 


The New Timothy. 


ignated him to herself, and to a great many besides in the 
neighborhood. John is truly glad to see him. Seems too 
much so, frankly and unaffectedly, Burleson fears, for any 
other and deeper feeling. Yes, she is glad to see him, sits 
down immediately, bonnet in hand, and questions him 
about Mr. Wall’s family, about Bug and Anna and all the 
rest. Her clear guileless eyes are never averted, there is 
no confusion, no little tremor of manner, not the least, or 
only the least, hurry or nervousness. Mrs. General Likens 
is Burleson’s devoted friend and ally, and she does not like 
it, is almost angry with John. 

The General returns from the stable soon, is glad to see 
Burleson, adds his entreaties to those of his wife — and of 
John, too — Burleson does not like that at all — that he will 
remain all night. Burleson has come all the way from 
Hoppleton for that sole and express purpose, and, therefore, 
he requires a great deal more persuasion. He consents at 
last. 

Supper arrives in due time, family prayers afterwards. 
At this last the General asks Burleson to lead in prayer — 
the General invariably reads the Bible at family worship 
himself, it is his inalienable prerogative as the patriarch of 
the household, whoever else may be there. Burleson de- 
clines. 

“Not a religious man?” asks the General, gravely. 
Burleson is compelled to reply in the negative. “ I am 
truly sorry to know it,” says the General, in slow, serious 
tones, and himself leads in prayer, in the course of which he 
makes special supplication for his young guest. 

“ You notice ? I don’t like it, child,” says his wdfe to 
John, whom she accompanies to her chamber at the hour 
of retirement. The two hours between supper and bed 
having been utterly wasted — in Burleson’s opinion — in 
such conversation Avith John as the presence of the old 


Sabbath Morning. 


255 


people allowed. “ The General is changin’, getting so 
much more serious like, just the way James did before he 
died !” She had come into the room with John to say 
something for Burleson, but this new and painful idea has 
taken possession of her. “ That dreadful chest complaint, 
child. The Lord forbid ! You must pray for us, child, it 
would kill me — dead,” and she kisses John on the cheek, 
and goes down stairs with a slow, heavy step. 

She is as cheerful as ever the next morning at breakfast. 
It is one of John’s special Sabbath mornings ; bright and 
clear as if Nature, too, remembered the event it commem- 
orated and smiled with gladness in the recollection. And 
John looks lovelier than the day before. In fact, she al- 
ways does on Sabbath. And it is not in the Sabbath toi- 
lette either. Nothing can be plainer than that. It is the 
subdued gladness of eye and lip, the softened modulation 
of tone and motion, the repose of manner of a soul enjoy- 
ing the holy rest. The very trials of her new occupation 
— and they have been very near as dark as Mrs. General 
Likens painted them — have only brought her piety into 
more active exercise. She has been driven only so much 
the nearer to her Saviour, and is grateful, unconsciously 
though it be, for all that has driven her there. And who 
does not know that all intimate friends come to resemble 
each other, and in proportion to their intimacy ? Her en- 
tire religion being simply a personal friendship with One 
— if Mr. Josiah Evers can excuse her — whom she regards 
as her wisest, ablest, nearest, dearest friend ! 

To Burleson it is Sunday ; exactly that much — no more. 
He drives John to church in his buggy. He has been 
treasuring up his interview with their hostess ; he details 
it to John with glee. It is not in human nature not to 
be amused ; but Mrs. General Likens is their friend, of 
whose unsuspecting hospitality he is freely partaking. It 


256 


The New Timothy. 


was a deception, too, he had practised upon her, which 
has to John an unpleasant aspect. If her companion is so 
adroit and prompt in this, may he not be as prompt, as 
adroit, as successful, too, in other deceptions — many other 
deceptions in other matters — any other — all other, when 
an end is to be gained ? All this she feels rather than 
actually thinks, and he seems so utterly destitute of sus- 
picion that he has done any thing to which the least ob- 
jection can be made. Is it the Sabbath atmosphere 
around and within her which causes his conversation in 
some way to jar a little on her ear? She is no ascetic 
Puritan — no sourness in her simple piety; she does not 
stop to reason much on the matter as she rides and listens, 
but she does wot feel with him. 

And, on the return ride, she can not but agree that Mr. 
Merkes is open to severe criticism. She can not refrain 
from laughing at Burleson’s criticisms. But Mr. Merkes 
is a preacher of the Gospel, too ; it was the worship of 
God he was conducting ; it is the Sabbath afternoon 
through whose lengthening shades they are driving home. 
Burleson is a frank and handsome and genial gentleman 
as ever lady desired to see. He has driven, as she well 
knows, all the way from Hoppleton to enjoy her society a 
few hours to-day ; a companion more talented, brilliant in 
conversation — so handsome, too — she has never known. 
Nor any stain upon his character — and yet ? What is his 
lack ? Something very great, but what ? And the very 
trees through which they ride not more indifferent to, ab- 
solutely unconscious of, those things which interest her 
most. No deception in him here; he seems unaware of 
the existence, even, of all things or persons except those in 
grasp or sight or hearing ! Unconsciously she is losing 
interest in him as she knows him better, and he is sensible 
of this. Yet it has effect the reverse of offending him. It 


Sabbath Evening. 


257 


awakens in him a sense vague yet bitter of something 
wrong, rather of some great lack in himself, accompanied 
by increased sense of her elevation above him, substantial 
value over him, with ever deepening love for her for that 
very account. His love for her begets, too, a strange con- 
tempt for himself. Both emotions on the increase, becom- 
ing only the more reckless as they grow. 

“ Reckless !” His father is repeating it to himself, relig- 
ious paper lying on his knee, as he thinks it over, his head 
in his bosom. “ Yes, reckless — I know of no other word — 
and it lies in the heart ; more so than when he came home ; 
more so every day. No purpose, no conception of a pur- 
pose in life ! Even Nan, here, has — poor thing ! — a set pur- 
pose in life : to get married. Even if it was money only, 
or distinction at the bar. I would be willing, even, to see 
him go into politics — dirty puddle ! He might, at least, 
have the purpose of gratifying his mother and myself !” 

And the banker puzzles painfully over the matter, as the 
most complex by far of all the business affairs which have 
ever come before him as yet. 

17 


258 


The New Timothy. 


Chapter XXIL 

The Enthronement of a King ! 

^^T^EAD? You mean only very sick! You can’t 
mean dead!'^^ Yes, dead — actually dead! How 
the tidings fly, like living winged things, this Monday 
morning ! 

The children playing along the road on their way to 
school, or, truants therefrom, rambling through the woods, 
fishing at far-ofi* pools, catch the swift and startling tidings 
as if from the air, halt, horror-struck, a moment, and then 
run every step of the way home to burst breathless into the 
house. 

“ Oh, Ma ! Oh, Pa ! Dead ! Likens ! General ! Gen- 
eral Likens ! Dead !’ 

Black Scip, ploughing in the field steadily along with in- 
cessant “ Gee !” and “ Haw !” and “ Come here. Brandy !” 
calculating, as he trudges along with uneven feet on un- 
broken ground and broken furrow, U23 and down, how long 
it is before “ sundown what are the chances of the possum 
hunt to-night, nor dreaming as yet of emancipation by five 
hundred years, though the same is but some six years or so 
off* — black Scip halts suddenly. His furrow runs along the 
fence, and some “ boy,” galloping for life uj)on the road, 
yells to him the sudden news, and is gone. 

“What you say? General Likens?^ Lor a massy! 
Dead ! Who-a-o Buck!” 

In five minutes every hand in the field has left his or her 
plough, and is beside Scip on the spot where the lightning 
struck ! The overseer is seated on the fence above them, 


Dead. 


259 


the negroes wondering, exclaiming, ejaculating, scarcely 
above their breaths, though. Five minutes before, the 
overseer was yelling and cursing at the hands here, there, 
all over the field at the same time ; now none so silent as 
he ; for he knew the General, the General knew him, well 
— and he is thinking of that last talk they had together. 

“There, there, boys! That’ll do! Work must be did 
whoever’s dead !” he says, at last ; but it is half an hour be- 
fore he says it, and in very mild tones. And so each hand 
goes slowly back to the plough with other thoughts, as the 
mould opens to the ploughshare before their feet again. 
The possum hunt is abandoned for to-night. The very call- . 
ing to oxen and mule as they plough sounding to their own 
ears like swearing almost ; for Sunday has suddenly come 
down upon the field, and it seems almost wicked to work. 

Late in the afternoon the body is laid, duly covered with 
the snowiest of linen, upon a lounge in the centre of the 
best room. Uncle Simeon is seated at the side ever since 
it was laid there, leaning heavily on his old staif, and look- 
ing fixedly and without a tear at the cold, set face. 

“ An’ you is dar ! ’Fore me ! Dar ! Gone, an ’dar ’fore 
me ! Act’ly dar ! ” He repeats it over and over again 
very often, regarding nothing else in the world. 

Let us go back a little. It was upon the household as- 
sembled that Monday morning the event fell — out of all 
possible occupations assembled for family worship. The 
General had taken his seat as usual in his arm-chair, his 
wife placing the little work-table, with its cover and fringe 
of cotton, upon which lay the large family Bible, beside 
him, as she had done morning and evening for many a long 
year. As he had never failed at family worship to do, the 
General places his hands, clasped together, upon the Bible 
lying opened before him, bows his head reverently and 


260 


The New Timothy. 


with closed eyes, and begins his brief petition — going ah 
ways before the reading — “ Lord, open thou our eyes, that 
we may behold wondrous — ” 

A hesitation in the words, a sudden raising of the hands, 
still locked together, to the breast, a labored, indescribable 
gasp, and the General has fallen to one side in his large 
chair, whose arms support him from falling to the floor. 
Dead. A curious ashen hue over his face — dead. 

There follows around him, lying perfectly still in the cen- 
tre of it all, the rush of all there, the cries of surprise, the 
shrieks of anguish. Caught up from the group gathered 
in terror around the body — the wife nearest to it, but most 
silent of all — the tidings fly from house to kitchen, from 
kitchen to cabin, from cabin to stable, from stable to field 
abroad, and so over the whole neighborhood, and on, in 
time, to the farthest individual that ever heard of the Gen- 
eral. There is a galloping off after the doctor of negro af- 
ter negro as fast as one horse after another can be saddled 
for the purpose : whip and shout applied with immeasura- 
bly more energy than if it was for their own father, broth- 
er, wife, child. There is a wild throwing open of pantry- 
doors, a tearing out of drawers in search of remedies, a 
running of persons against each other. Amidst all the 
noise the General has fallen a little forward in Ins chair, 
silent forever : amidst all the confusion and bewilderment 
he has entered, wondering, upon the realm of perfect and 
perpetual peace. 

If Robert Wall had spoken out all his daily mind they 
would have put him in the mad-house long before they 
did; nor is Mr. Wall free from many a thought which 
would have made people stare if uttered. For months, as 
an instance, he has, somehow, identified the General with 
Alfred the Great, shaping his bow for war elsewhere, while 
the cakes burn neglected on the hearth, neglectful, even, 


Bearing Up. 


261 


of the noisy housewife thereat. The foolish fancy seems 
to him less foolish just at this instant. 

The young minister, having done all else that he could, 
was about to offer some consolation — with a sense of infi- 
nite awkwardness, too — to the smitten wife, clinging so 
silently about her husband’s knees ; but John, pale and 
weeping and quiet, with hand on his arm, whispers him, 
“ Not now, please, not now !” and comforts the wife most by 
quieting the confusion, and then having the body laid, with 
silent beckon and motion of command to the servants, upon 
the bed. It is hours after, when the doctor has come and 
gone, when all know that the master of the house is indeed 
dead, before John, sitting beside Mrs. General Likens, ly- 
ing, exhausted, upon her bed, ventures to whisper words 
of consolation. 

“ Don’t be afraid for me, child,” says Mrs. General Lik- 
ens ; and she rises instantly and sits up in bed. “ Haven’t 
I been expectin’ it all along ? An’ I ain’t been prayin’ for 
grace to help in time of need all this time, mornin’ and 
night, for nothin’, I hope. It was only the first clap, you 
know. He was ready an’ waitin.’ I jest laid down a min- 
ute to rest a little. Don’t fear me ; I’m strong ; I’ll bear 
up !” and she persists in getting off the bed, bathes her 
eyes, smooths her hair, arranges her cap, and moves about, 
overseeing and directing all that is going on — very old, 
though. 

“ Never is a time a mistress is needed so all around,” she 
says, hours after, to John, who has refrained from expostu- 
lation, only followed with anxious look her tall, active 
figure as it moves about with restless energy, the tears in 
John’s eyes and a vague dread in John’s heart. “ Must be 
after the black ones all the time ; they mean well, but don’t 
know how,” she explains to John, sitting down for a mo- 
ment beside her and rising up again instantly. It seems 


262 


The New Timothy. 


to John as if the mistress of the house dare not stop an in- 
stant on some account. And then, hair and complexion 
and manner, she is suddenly ten years older than when they 
sat down to breakfast that morning, the General apparent- 
ly never better in his life — Mrs. General Likens certainly 
never more talkative. And yet the servants are almost 
troublesome in their officious zeal. They anticipate every 
wish, keeping wistful eyes upon her : start forward to obey 
as she opens her mouth to speak ; are off on her errand with 
a “ Yes, Missis — yes. Missis,” before the order is well out 
of her lips. Moll, the house-girl, late that night, lingers un- 
easily around the table in the kitchen at which the cook is 
making up her bread for the next morning’s breakfast. 

“ I don’t like about ole missis,” she ventures at last ; 
“ ’pears to me — What you think, mammy ?” The old cook 
has carefully refrained from lifting her eyes from her dough, 
and now replies, roughly, 

“ Don’t Stan’ dar foolin’ round me, gal !” and immediate- 
ly thereafter sinks back in her seat with an “ Oh my Heb- 
enly Massa !” and a paroxysm of weeping. 

The next day is Tuesday, and as the hour of the funeral 
services approaches all the children of the neighborhood 
come flocking in. General Likens has been to them from 
their births a part of nature itself. General Likens dead? 
It is as if the universe was tumbling down ! They can not 
comprehend it. On their first arrival no earthly induce- 
ment can get them into the room, the best in the house 
and opening upon the porch, in which the General lies in 
his coffin, supported at each end upon a hide-bottomed 
chair. They steal cautiously to the door and look in, 
grouped together and holding by each other with breath- 
less awe. By-and-by they steal in one by one, stand be- 
side Uncle Simeon seated beside the coffin, and holding 
firmly to him and to each other as they do so, they gaze 


The Funeral. 


263 


fearfully upon the cold, calm face. Not for millions would 
they dare touch, however, the brown hands clasped upon 
the broad bosom — hands yesterday so familiar, to-day so ter- 
rible in their waxen coldness. And so they get used to it 
all, and finally have to be checked by parents and friends, 
as they forget all about the dead and frolic noisily, wait- 
ing for service to begin, around the house and over the 
yard. 

The company pours steadily in, upon horseback, and in 
all manner of wagons and carriages ; evidently all the Li- 
kens neighborhood will be there by eleven. Brown Bob 
Long had been at the house since noon yesterday ; is the 
first to arrive to-day. And he is grave, but with a singu- 
lar elation in his manner too, almost joy, as if a fortune 
had fallen to the General. Arrayed like all these, in his 
best clothes, Isham, the black theologian, idles among the 
groups of negroes gathered from all the plantations around, 
conscious of being their host. He is so far recovered from 
the shock of the death as, in intervals from carrying chairs 
hither and thither, and assisting to tie the ever-arriving 
horses, to deny and dispute every statement of a religious 
nature put forth by any one of his sable friends. 

‘‘ Ef yonder ain’t them Meggar folks !” ejaculates one of 
these, in reference to a party on horseback coming up the 
lane. 

The statement is promptly scouted by Isham, but is true 
none the less. Old Mrs. Meggar has come with them on 
horseback, and precedes the rest into the house. The oth- 
ers fasten their horses outside the fence, taking much more 
time for the same than is necessary. For Isham has re- 
marked from the first : 

Ketch me fastenin’ their critters for such trash as the 
Meggars ! Not ’less old massa was to come back from 
hebben to tell me !” 


264 


The l^Ew Timothy. 


But they come into the gate at last, with Doc. Meggaf 
in the lead. A delegation of sixteen dogs, Thunder in ad- 
vance, accompanies them ; or, to be sternly accurate, fif- 
teen and four-sixths, three of the four-sixths being the dog 
lamed in the bear-fight, who uses now only three of his 
legs ; the remaining sixth being the fice, off of duty at 
home and deprived thus of his bark. With the other dogs 
Zed and Toad come, and very much as if with their tails 
between their legs, after the Meggar boys to the gate, but 
stop there, produce knives simultaneously from their pock- 
ets, split each a good splinter off the palings, and begin 
whittling. They are out of their element, and curse 
guardedly and under their breaths, hats down over their 
eyes. 

‘‘ S’pose he is dead. I never said he wasn’t !” Zed com- 
plains in continuation to Toady. “ He isn’t my daddy, is 
he ? I want to know !” and his splinter is assuming under 
his knife the shape of a coffin. 

“ An’ such a day for a hunt !” acquiesces his companion. 
“ Oh no ! mighty pious, to be sure ! legs in trowsers like 
candle-moulds, a feller’s collar a-sawin’ away under his 
ears. It’s gettin’ to be a leetle more’n I can stand my- 
self!” and his remarks thereupon are not exactly of the 
nature of a mass for the repose of him who lies shrouded 
within. 

‘‘ You hear Doc. try the old man ?” remarks Toad again, 
after a silence, whittling nearer his companion and farther 
from the gate, as the company still continues to arrive. 

“ To get him to come ?” answers Zed, with an oath. 

“^^'ot straight out, you know; he hinted round,” said 
Toady, with half a dozen curses. And that was a pecu- 
liarity of the Meggar family, that hinting round. Very 
rarely, indeed, did any one under that roof ask a direct 
question of, or make any direct remark, unless it was a 


The Meggaes. 


265 


curse, to any other there. This would involve their look- 
ing each other straight in the eyes while they spoke — a 
thing habitually avoided by them even in the heat of quar- 
rel. Old Mrs. Meggar only asked direct questions, made 
remarks aimed at some one person under her roof, looking 
in the eyes of the person she addressed as she spoke ; but 
she was a disagreeable exception to the general rule — a 
sort of incarnate conscience in the centre of the family on 
that account. 

“ Yes, Doc. he hinted round an’ round the old man like 
a bumble-bee, cornin’ closer an’ closer ev’ry time,” said 
Toad, who had himself not seen his companion’s eyes in his 
life except furtively. 

“ And what did that old cuss say ?” inquires Zed. 

“ He was a-smokin’ by the fire ; ‘ Ketch me goin’ to 

funerals,’ says he. Old ’oman was a-knittin’ in the cor- 
ner,” continues Toad. ‘ Soul ?’ the old man says, says 
he, ‘ Ha’n’t got any. Spit it away in tobacco juice ; 
puffed it away in tobacco smoke ; drowned it out in whisky ; 
cussed it to pieces long ago.’ An’ he up an’ slams on his 
breast with his hand. ‘Hollow!’ says he, ‘hemptyl’ Old 
’oman she was cryin’ softly ; when he says that, she ups 
an’ out.” 

“ Breaks for the butter-beans,” remarks Zed, and very 
correctly. 

“ Ha’n’t been no fun sence that bar-fight,” continues 
Toad, at last. “ General Likens he comes over — glad he’s 
gone ; Brown Bob he sits an’ talks ; that young parson 
act’ly lies his praarrs in the house ! Goin’ to preachin’, 
too, ev’ry Sunday ; old ’oman on old gray, or in the wagon ; 
we a-followin’ behind.” 

“ An’ Doc., he tryin’ to ease off* from swearin’.” Zed 
continues the catalogue of grievances : “ A fellar that 

could swear the bark off* a black-jack too — he tryin’ to 


266 


The New Timothy. 


give up swearin’ !” The thought is painful to both in the 
extreme. 

“ Did my best, too, to stop it,” complains Toad ; “ his 
givin’ it up. Crossed and bothered him more’n I ever 
dar to do before. You see I thought Doc. he’d blaze out 
at me like he used to; get in the way again so.” 

“Not a curse at las’. Only got knocked down for your 
pains,” observes Zed, moodily. 

“ But, I say, look here,” says Toad, after some silent 
whittling, under the temporary influence, probably, of the 
funeral and of the many solemn faces grouped around and 
arriving every moment, and as if by a desperate effort, 
“ S’pose a fellar turns out he hes got a soul somewhere 
among his in’ards — and s’pose there is a God — ” But 
his conjectures are broken by the indignant oaths of his 
disgusted friend, who trembles inwardly with even great- 
er apprehension himself 

By this time the young minister, standing beside the 
body in its coffin, has begun the funeral services. The 
room is filled. So is the piazza in front. The negroes 
crowd a back room, peering in at the open door, sending 
in their voices to swell the funeral psalm. No one thinks 
of disturbing Uncle Simeon in his seat by the coffin. 

“ An’ you is dar^ Massa, along Mass James, act’ly dar 
the old man has been still murmuring to himself in lower 
and lower tones as if falling asleep, regardless of those 
around. But it is Mrs. General Likens who attracts the 
most attention. She sits beside John clasping firmly her 
hand, calm by a fixed effort. No one there, however, but 
notices the features how they have suddenly sharpened ; 
the hair, too, whitened in the last few hours : she seems to 
have indeed rapidly become old, very old ! 

“ Thank you. I was expectin’ it, you see,” she has re- 
marked to every attempt at consolation from the multi- 


Two Saved Ones. 


267 


tude of friends assembled about her. “No, you needn’t 
fear me. I’ll bear up. We ham been long together, but 
I was expectin’ it !” And she repeats it to every one, as 
if mechanically. “ Thank you ! Needn’t fear me. I’m 
strong. Expectin’ it, you see !” And so the funeral serv- 
ices go on about the sleeper lying in his coffin, but with 
uncovered face, in the midst — so calm, so natural ! The 
dead countenance is but that of a very plain Christian 
planter; yet it strikes Charles Wall, as he gazes upon it, 
what breadth there is of brow, and curve of chin and lip 
and regal dignity of aspect — wonderfully like, in the mar- 
ble of death, to busts he has seen of Roman emperors ; an 
unspeakable exaltation and grandeur in the set face, as of 
one entered on rule in a sublimer world ! The old foolish 
thought of Alfred and his bow forces itself again upon 
him: for are there not trophies here of that bow ? 

Since the service began, old Mrs. Meggar, utterly forget- 
ting the dead, has changed her seat in the crowded room, so 
that she can see the living — her sons ! Happy tears flow 
for them as she sees them enter the room. All have come 
— Doc., Bill, Jake — under a force which they would gladly 
have resisted if they could. At first they lingered on the 
outskirts, but now they stand as near the coffin as any, neat- 
ly dressed, solemn, and thoroughly alarmed. The neigh- 
bors wonder even there, and nudge each other to observe 
them. After the second verse Doc. even endeavors to join 
in singing, for the lines are given out. His brothers 
glance up with surprise, note the calm, firm expression of 
his face, and look down again more alarmed than ever. 
Doc. sees nothing but the peaceful face of the dead ; has 
reached the full climax of his new purpose in life ; neither 
thinks nor cares for any thing else. 

It may be mere accident that Brown Bob Long stands 
beside Doc. — mere accident. However that may be, the 


268 


The New Timothy. 


tears are running undisguisedly down his rough beard as 
he hears Doc.’s murmured attempts at melody. And it is 
rather a wonder than not that Doc. can stand there so com- 
posed, for Brown Bob has managed to get his hand as it 
hangs by his side in his own, and the squeeze is unlimited, 
yet Doc. is hardly aware of the presence of Bob in the 
room. 

“ Mighty to save,” Bob whispers, hours after this, to the 
young minister after the grave has been filled up. “ You 
look at it in the Hebrew when you get home — it’s Isaiah, 
sixty-third — mighty to save — the mightiest, sort of mighty, 
the Hebrew makes it ! I dug it out to the roots with my 
Lexicon las’ night. The save^ too, Yahoshea it is, Joshua^ 
you know, an’ Jesus ! An’ that text you spoke from over 
the body at the house — our Saviour Jesus Christ hath 
abolished death — you oughter ’a told the people about 
that word abolished. It’s Jcatargesantos — Jcata by itself 
means, you know, dead against, upsettin’, destroyin’. Then 
there’s the rest of the word, argesantos — the alpha is priv- 
ative, you know, dead against. Again, ergon^ “ a work” — 
that is, death, which is the devil’s work ! What an amaz- 
in’ strong expression it is ! Christ hath completely, utter- 
ly, entirely undone, destroyed, annihilated death! Yes, 
abolished is good English for it if a man only knows how 
strong the abolished is !” and Mr. Long has the earnest- 
ness of a discoverer. 

But that was afterwards, when they had laid the Gen- 
eral to sleep near the little old church in the woods, close 
beside J ames. While the friends are yet around the open 
coffin in the house, the young pastor dwells in plainest lan- 
guage upon the simple facts of salvation for every one else 
there, as for the General, by the same Saviour, and his 
words evidently sink deep into a good soil, for it is soft 
with tears. 


Departed m Peace. 


269 


Uncle Simeon leans more and more heavily upon his 
staff beside his old master. He is very old and feeble. 
As the minister proceeds his forehead rests upon the edge 
of the coffin, nothing visible but his white head and bowed 
shoulders. All respect and love Uncle Simeon ; next to 
the wife no one has a better right to be so near the dead. 
But he will not move when they come at last to put on 
the lid of the coffin. Brown Bob lays his hand kindly on 
his shoulder, stoops to speak to him, looks around with an 
exclamation — Uncle Simeon is gone after his master ! The 
grief of the negroes before was loud and clamorous ; it is 
awed now almost into silence. 


270 


The New Timothy. 


Chapter XXIII. 

In which Mr. Merkes is cruelly treated, 

TT OPPLETON hears a faint rumor one morning, and 
smiles at the same as a pleasant absurdity. Hop- 
pleton hears next day a repeated rumor to the same ef- 
fect, and pshaws it as a good enough joke at first, but 
worn out. The day after, Hoppleton hears the same non- 
sense in stronger tones than ever before. HojDpleton now 
learns, on the best authority, that the thing is perfectly 
certain, and instantly asserts that it always knew it was 
to be. 

‘‘It’s just like her,” says the feminine part of the town. 
— “ But how in the mischief did Mr. Burleson senior and 
Mr. Burleson junior come to permit it ?” asks the mascu- 
line j)art of Hoppleton. — “You’d better ask how Mrs. 
Burleson could come to say Yes !” says the feminine part 
again. “ But, as to Anna Burleson, it’s just like her — we 
are not astonished in the least !” although they all were 
I — the ladies, at least, exceedingly so. After the first blow, 
however, they were not astonished either. They knew the 
mystic machinery going on under their own necklaces 
well enough, at least, to know that no one should reason- 
ably be astonished at any thing their sex may do. Two 
]3arties formed among the ladies of Hoppleton on the spot. 
The age of about twenty was the dividing line of the par- 
ties. 

“ Anna Burleson is raving crazy !” said all the sex un- 
der twenty and unmarried. 


Matrimony Considered. 


211 


“ Better than be an old maid,” replies all the sex over 
twenty and married. 

“But the man is mpoorP^ rejoins the first party. 

“ Better him than live an old maid,” answers the second 
party. 

“ But the man has got eight or ten children !” 

“Better them than none at all. And it ain’t ten; its 
only six or seven. If it was fifty, better that than be an 
old maid !” 

“ And cross ! Gracious ! And lean, and dry, and sour ! 
— as lief marry a crab-tree !” 

“ISTo you wouldn’t. Better him, if he was a vinegar- 
cruet on legs, than no man at all.” 

“ Do you think toe would be such fools as Anna Burle- 
son ?” 

“ In her case, yes.” 

“ Do we understand you to say we — would — under — 
any — set — of circumstances — marry — such — a — man — as 
that ?” demand those of the other faction Avho are nearest 
twenty — say twenty-five — weighing out the words one by 
one in the scales of indignation. 

“ There’s no danger of your being placed in such a situa- 
tion,” says the wiser party, with a smile of propitiation. 
“ But if you were — yes ! If you were Anna Burleson, in 
Anna Burleson’s situation, you would act, of course, exact- 
ly as Anna Burleson is acting. We tell you what, girls,” 
continued the more experienced ladies, “it’s very easy to 
say I wouldn’t do so and so — I wouldn’t ! Mighty easy 
to talk. But the fact is, almost any husband is better 
than no husband.” 

“ You forget Laura Wall !” exclaim the defeated side, 
rallying an instant. 

“Yes, if you had Laura Wall’s piety and sweetness it 
would be difierent. But Laura is one in ten thousand. 


272 


The New Timothy. 


None of you girls are as good as she is, and you know 
it well enough.” 

“ My wonder,” says one of the younger misses, after 
a while, “ is that Ed. Burleson didn’t pull his nose, if he is 
a minister, when he first proposed such a thing !” 

“ Don’t you believe it !” says the older of the sex, with 
aspect of profound experience. 

“By-the-by, who is that Ed. Burleson going to marry ?” 
inquire three Misses in a breath. 

‘‘ You silly creatures !” six others of their owm age make 
answer. ‘‘ Loo Mills, of course. Isn’t he with her all the 
time ?” 

“ You are wrong, girls,” says the older party, strong 
from recent victory. “ Ed. Burleson is not going to marry 
Loo Mills.” 

‘‘ Who is he going to marry, then ?” exclaim the others 
somewhat relieved. 

“ If we tell you, mind, you must not tell a soul,” reply 
the other side, sinking its voice. “We have it as a secret. 
He is going to marry John — that sweet little John Easton 
that used to live at Mr. Wall’s.” 

“ How do you know ?” is the prompt question, after the 
“ Law me’s !” are over, and the uplifted hands dropped. 

“ He addressed her before she left, if you 7nust know,” 
says the wisdom in the circle. “ He went out to a coun- 
try neighborhood once — some miserable little place she 
was visiting — and drove her home in his buggy. Be- 
sides, Bug knows. She managed to go with him once — 
got into his trunk or something. We coaxed it all out of 
her one day. And he’s been there dozens of times since.” 

“ Been where ?” 

“ Oh, that neighborhood, whatever they call it, where 
John is teaching. You mustn’t repeat it, girls. She’ll 
soon be Mrs. Burleson the younger, living in Hoppleton, 


Mr. and Mrs. Edward Burleson. 273 

driving in a handsome carriage, wearing finer dresses 
than any of us. But it does look artful in her. It was a 
great temptation though — he is so rich, she so poor.” 

“ Oh no, you mustn’t say that of John. There never 
'was such an artless, quiet little thing !” exclaim the other 
side ; but they believe the w'orst of her too. 

“Just to think !” they afterwards remark quite frequent- 
ly to themselves, and to their parents, and every body. 

“Who is it was saying he was getting so dissipated?” 
inquire the older ladies. “ Somebody ought to tell John.” 

“ He’s such a provoking creature, 1 can’t endure him ; 
teases one so,” says the young lady present whom Burle- 
son has visited least of any there. 

“ Handsome, talented fellow ; pity he should dissipate !” 
says the wisdom again, with sincere regret. 

“ Handsome !” say the other party, with a little scream ; 
“and talented! We never knew it before!” His being 
engaged to John has suddenly sunk Burleson in their es- 
teem very low indeed. 

“ Ah, well, any of you girls would be glad to marry him !” 
is the candid reply — which is rejected, however, with the 
scorn it deserves. 

“ And you are so wise,” say the junior ladies at last, “ per- 
haps you can tell us who Loo Mills is going to marry ?” 

“ Certainly, I can,” says the oldest and wisest of the 
other side. 

“ You certainly don’t believe that story of her being en- 
gaged to that nephew of Mr. Wall’s?” scream all the rest 
in chorus. The assaulted lady nods her head with the 
gravity of certain assurance, and bears unshaken the de- 
nials and exclamations poured upon her. 

“But how do you know?” is at last the question. 

“Mrs. Wall as good as told me so,” is the reply. ^^They 
don’t object, bless you — not they ! No wonder !” 

18 


274 


The New Timothy. 


‘‘Law me! asked Laura Wall once,” volunteers one 
of the other ladies, “ and she only said, ‘ Do you think they 
would he congenial spirits, Mrs. Brown ?’ That’s all I could 
get out of Laura.” 

“ But do somebody tell me,” breaks in anotlier lady, 
small of size and therefore specially inquisitive, “ how in 
this world did all this about Mr. Merkes and Anna Burle- 
son come about. I thought Josiah Evers was the happy 
man.” 

“ Law me ! didn’t you ever hear what passed between 
Ed. Burleson and him ?” asks Mrs. Brown. “ Ed. went out 
of his way to insult J osiah Evers one day. Josiah he drew 
himself up and said, ‘ You had better wait until I ask an al- 
liance in your family, sir, before you become so offended at 
me.’ There was a good many standing around, and it cut 
young Burleson to the bone. Sharp as a needle ; bless you, 
Yankees always are. Burleson only cursed and walked off. 
Depend on it, he didn’t oppose her having Mr. Merkes. 
But, still, I wonder how it did come about at last !” 

But nobody knew. And nobody ever will know either. 
The father of the daughter did not know, as he drummed 
upon his desk with his ruler and meditated. Mrs. Burleson 
did not, treating the whole matter with lofty disdain. 
The daughter herself could not tell exactly where, or when, 
or how it began. In all Hoppleton no one was more as- 
tonished than Mr. Merkes himself ! When he became fully 
aware of the fact that he was indeed to marry again, and 
Miss Anna Burleson at that, he grew alarmed, suspicious, 
nervous to the last degree. Something wrong somewhere ! 
A conspiracy, on the part of somebody, under it all ! He 
never could eat much ; he now ceased to eat altogether. 
As to a good night’s sleep, that was out of the question. 
He would have been deeply wounded had she not agreed to 
marry him. It was little better now that she had agreed 


Mr. JMerkes’s Mill. 


275 


to. He ground the whole^atter over and over and over 
asrain in his mind with a hand never off the crank of the 

O 

mill, by day nor by night. There is the bearing of the fa- 
ther, of the mother, especially of the handsome, haughty, 
reckless brother — he plainly does not like it at all ! Bug, 
too — she is extremely disagreeable to him. Even Anna her- 
self — she seemed a noble prize wdien apparently out of his 
reach ; now that he had won her he Avas by no means so 
certain ; for it is a singular feature in Mr. Merkes’s charac- 
ter, that whenever an object actually came into his hands it 
instantly lost all of its glitter and desirableness. He has a 
very poor opinion thus of his children. The fact is, he has 
a miserable opinion of himself, though he resents bitterly 
the faintest hint of the same opinion in regard to him on 
the part of any body else. 

For Mr. Merkes teaches school in Hoppleton these days. 
His house is next that of poor Issells, the melancholy tai- 
lor ; the front and largest room in the building being used 
as the school-room ; and a cheerless home Mr. Merkes has 
of it wnth Samuel, Mary, Alexander, and poor little Lucy 
in the remaining rooms. It is dispiriting even to Mr. 
Mack, the jovial cabinet-maker, opposite that sepulchral 
home. He objects loudly to the amount of whipping nec- 
essary to the right training of the children thereat; of late 
has bits of cotton ostentatiously at hand on a shelf, as he 
informs his visitors, ready to stop up both ears at the first 
sound of the rod over the way. Ev^n Issells comes over 
to tell him — Mr. Mack. 

“ It is horrible the way that scoundrel beats those poor 
children — he a preacher too ! all preachers about alike, if 
the fact was known !” 

^ Anna Burleson, now she has promised to marry him, how 
Mr. Merkes grinds her in that remorseless, incessant mill 
within ! Is she at all as good-looking as his departed wife 


276 


The New Timothy. 


when he was first engaged to her? No, no, no, goes the 
mill. How old is she ? Thirty, perhaps thirty-five ; forty, 
perhajDS forty-five ; fifty, perhaps — hut she can’t he older 
than her father — one comfort. Her teeth too, grinds the 
mill, are they not false — are they not — are they not ? And 
her hair— her hair ? Her complexion too, false or real ? — 
false or real ? Her health too — may she not have some 
dreadful internal disease — may she not? — may she not? 
And her temper too ? Here he grinds with fresh energy. 
Yes, he has heard this of it ; yes, he has heard that of 
it ! And won’t people say I married her for her money ? 
That is a solid something, indeed, for his mental mill, and he 
grinds away at it for miserable hours. Hah ! and he sits 
bolt upright in bed when the thought drops, at midnight, 
into the hopper of his mill. Perhaps the bank is secretly 
broken ; perhaps not a cent is left for the family to live 
upon ; perhaps that is the reason she consented to marry 
me — to have me help support the family ; and at this sug- 
gestion he works steadily, tossing and turning in bed the 
rest of the night. And so all day too — there must be some 
hidden reason, some concealed motive for their consenting 
to the match ! 

It is a dreadful trouble to Mr. Merkes. He can not be- 
gin to indulge in the least pleasurable view of the matter 
but the thought suddenly seizes him by the collar: May 
she not be ruinously extravagant ? And he has hardly 
shaken that off before another idea has him more firmly 
by the throat : Look here, don’t you know she and the chil- 
dren will live in perpetual strife ? It is intolerable. He is 
unusually cross in school ; he boxes the ears of the four at 
home. He even argues painfully with himself the proprie- 
ty of flying the town. He looks forward with anxiety t^o 
the appointed day. He never was more miserable in his 
life. He wishes he had never come to Hoppleton ! 


Little Lucy Merkes. 


277 


Chapter XXIY. 

“ Terrihle News in Town to-day^ Sir /” 

B ut the attention of Hoppleton is diverted from Mr. 

Merkes’s approaching marriage this cold December 
day with a vengeance. From before day Issells has knock- 
ed at people’s doors and raved about the town like one 
distracted. Quite a crowd, before breakfast, are gathered 
in the bar-room of Moody’s Hotel, listening to the tailor 
as, half clothed and wholly unwashed and uncombed, he 
unfolds his almost frenzied story. 

“ You see, my wife is sick, has been for years, so that 
it’s little sleep I get at night. I have troubles, too, plenty 
of them, besides that, to keep me lying wide awake. I tell 
you, gentlemen, I’ve heard it five hundred times before, 
have mentioned it to Mack, there — he can tell you I did. 
Ah, here comes Mr. Ramsey ! You say he is a good man ! 
he can tell you I told him fifty times in passing, that man 
would kill one of them poor things — ” 

“ Stop, Mr. Issells !” It is Mr. Ramsey that speaks, and 
all the group, eager listeners added to it every moment, 
turn to his lifted hand and well-known voice. 

“ You did tell me two or three times that you believed 
Mr. Merkes was cross and cruel to the children. You never 
gave me any proof of it. We all know how bitter you are 
against religion, especially ministers, so I paid the less at- 
tention to what you said. Little Lucy is dead, gentlemen,” 
adds good Mr. Ramsey, very gravely ; “ I’ve been there 
ever since three o’clock this mornins: — ” 


278 


The ]N^ew Timothy. 


“ You see, he acknowledges breaks in Mr. Issells. 

“ Yes, and as sure as you live that old scoundrel struck her 
the blow that killed her. I have heard him — they live 
next my house, you know — at least a thousand times. You 
see, they would occasionally wake, one or the other of them, 
and cry during the night; as sure as they* did so he’d box 
their ears — the crossest old rascal, preacher as he is ! Here’s 
Mr. Mack will tell ypu that he had to keep things by him to 
stulF in his ears, he flogged those school-children so. Not 
half as much as he did his own. He was afraid of their fa- 
thers and brothers. They were at his mercy, those pitiful 
little ones of his own. Cross !” and Issells, being excessive- 
ly so himself, has no language to express the extent of Mr. 
Merkes’s sin in that direction. 

“Did you hear Lucy cry last night ? Did you hear Mr. 
Merkes strike her ? Be careful what you say, Mr. Issells. 
This matter may be in court.” It is Mr. Ramsey who says 
it, very pale and anxious. 

“ When I hear him raving and raging and slapping away 
at his children every night, how can I be certain of last 
night exactly which child he struck?” says Issels, a little 
more guardedly. “ I wasn’t in the man’s room. But I’ve 
no doubt that the old hypocrite killed that poor child.” 

And this is the burden of Issell’s story, which he repeats 
round and round town all day long. 

Mr. Merkes is Mready very generally disliked. Issell’s 
story, increasing in terror and volume as it spreads from 
lip to lijD, is creating a dangerous storm of feeling against 
him. All agree that Mr. Merkes is just the man to do it — 
not intentionally, but in a rage, not knowing how hard he 
strikes. If it was one of his scholars only it would be bad 
enough, but one of his own children — no mother, even, to 
defend them, and a poor miserable little girl too ! 

The feeling against Mr. Merkes is growing more danger- 


Anna Burleson. 


279 


ous to him every moment. A large crowd is collected in 
front of the house. But Mr. Ramsey comes over to get the 
cabinet-maker to make the little coffin, and Mr. Mack goes 
over with his tape into Mr. Merkes’s house, and comes out 
with it festooned in his hand, and so goes to work in ear- 
nest, very sober indeed. 

Hardly a lady in Hoppleton but is in and out of Mr. 
Merkes’s all day. From dawn one lady, however, has held 
undisputed sway there. This was Anna Burleson. From 
the instant black Sally, sent by her mammy for the pur- 
pose, rushed into lier bed-room and wakened her out of a 
sound sleep with the news, she has been another woman 
for life. Not waiting to consult father or mother, she has 
hurried over to Mr. Merkes’s, and no one does other than 
aid her in reference to the poor little body being prepared 
for the grave. Only this she has whispered to the wretch- 
ed father, white, hollow-eyed, shrivelled with an ague, as 
it were, by the school-room stove, in which some one has 
made a hasty fire — only this : 

“ Be a man, Mr. Merkes. Of course it’s false, Be true 
to yourself, and I will be true to you !” and so passes into 
the back-rooms and assumes command. She works with 
energy and decision, has new color in her face and new 
light in her eyes. All her soul has needed heretofore was 
as object in life. She has one now. 

Even in his anguish Mr. Merkes has time to ask himself, 
as her hand is lifted from his shoulder. Surely there must 
be some object, some scheme? But Mr. Wall the elder 
comes in at this juncture and sits beside him, and takes 
his hand kindly in his, and whispers long and low. 

“ No ! As God sees me, no !” Mr. Merkes answers the 
whisper in a voice which startles every one. At least 
Laura Wall, who has come in with her father, and who has 
shrunk from the miserable man with horror in her eyes, 


280 


The New Timothy. 


seems satisfied, and passes on into the chamber and throws 
her arms around Anna Burleson busy therein, and whis- 
pers to her, and bursts into loud weeping. 

“ I didn’t think you were foolish enough, Laura, to lis- 
ten to such stuff*,” is all that Anna has to say, putting her 
coolly off and going on with her work, singularly like her 
stately mother all at once in her manner, as all there, com- 
paring notes in a whisper, are agreed. 

Only once does she break down. Laura Wall has turn- 
ed from her to the bed upon which little Lucy lies, after a 
rapid, curious glance at the cold, pitiful face, and falls on 
her knees beside it, and kisses the little brow, and weeps — 
all the ladies crowding the room breaking afresh into tears 
at the sight. Anna Burleson has sunk on the floor by her 
side for a moment, weeping silently, and parting the flax- 
en hair from the forehead ot the dead child with lingering 
fingers, as if it were her own. She is soon on her feet 
again, seeing to it that all things needed are being attend- 
ed to. 

And so the ladies come and go all day, with perpetual 
whisperings, going out and coming hastily back for some- 
thing they have forgotten, or to receive fresh instructions 
from Anna, whose position in that household all acknowl- 
edge henceforth and forever. 

Mrs. Burleson never shows her face in the house — not 
even at the funeral next day. Mr. Burleson comes in only 
with the coroner’s jury, which takes possession immediate- 
ly after dinner, Edward with him. 

Only a few of the multitude can get in. Clemm the 
blacksmith is coroner ; Moody, Joe Hopple, M^Clarke, Mr. 
Ramsey, and others, on the jury. Anna Burleson and oth- 
er ladies testify that there were no marks of violence on 
the body. They also testify that little Lucy has always 
been a frail little thing, not ex^^ected to live. From her 


The Inquest. 


281 


birth, they have heard, though that is ruled out as being 
hearsay. Then Mack the cabinet-maker is examined, but 
knows nothing. Issells is brought in ; beyond what he 
has told at Moody’s Hotel that morning he knows nothing. 
Nothing whatever can be learned from Samuel or Alexan- 
der, shrinking from sight behind their father. Mary, sit- 
ting in Anna Burleson’s lap, closes any possibility of evi- 
dence on her part by quietly sinking back in a faint at 
the first question. The doctor testifies that the child had 
been a invalid from his first knowledge of her ; seemed 
lacking in vital force ; judged its mother must have been 
in feeble health at and for some time before its birth. 
And then the doctor clothes the immediate causes of its 
death in such learned terms as to cause a juryman to ejac- 
ulate “No wonder it died, poor thing !” 

At the close of this testimony, to the surprise of all, Ed- 
ward Burleson steps quietly forward and begs to be put 
on oath. He says that, from his own personal observa- 
tion for years, the course of life of students in the semina- 
ry at which Mr. Merkes took his diploma is such as in a 
large number of cases seriously to impair the health of the 
student. The young lawyer proceeds to depict the career 
of Mr. Merkes, and all like him, enfeebled in health from 
the beginning, after full entrance upon his profession. 
The peculiar strain of the duties thereof upon heart, mind, 
body; the mortifications and humiliations ; the insufficient 
pay ; the reasons why only in rare and desperate instances 
the minister can lay aside his profession, although it is 
wearing him rapidly to death. “ Among all your ac- 
quaintance with ministers, gentlemen,” he asks, “ are not 
the majority of them invalids ? As long-lived as other 
men, perhaps — insurance tables show that — but invalids 
the most of them ?” he asks. And, having never thought 
of it, all of them, before, the jury murmur, after a little re- 


2S2 


The N'ew Timothy. 


flection, “ That’s the fact, sure enough !” He then applied 
all this as ample explanation of Mr. Merkes’s alleged and 
exaggerated peevishness. If Mr. Merkes had struck his 
own helpless infant, which he utterly disbelieved, it was 
in a moment of insanity, the direct and natural result of 
the causes detailed. He appealed to every Christian pres- 
ent if one whom they had long known and respected as 
beyond doubt a sincerely pious minister could by any pos- 
sibility have intentionally injured his own motherless 
child unless thus deranged. 

It was something, at least, new to the jury, and they lis- 
tened. But the speaker was a lawyer, and who shall de- 
cide how much of his statement was legal evidence, was 
truth and right, and how much mere quibble and casu- 
istry ? 

The jury, a good deal bewildered, could only bring in 
verdict according to the evidence rendered, and so sepa- 
rate to allay the excitement brewing without. Who can 
tell all that takes place between Anna Burleson and Mr. 
Merkes after the funeral is over, and all the excitement at- 
tendant thereon subsided ? The wedding is postponed for 
mapy weeks, during which the feelings of Hoppleton in ref- 
erence to Anna Burleson are largely perplexed; on the 
whole, a kind of wondering admiration for her too. 

‘‘ Oh, Pa, are you not afraid religion will receive a terrible 
shock here ?” Laura had asked of her father on their way 
home, almost the moment they were out of the door. Her 
father even smiles, in his healthy and hearty piety, at her 
frightened manner. “ Shock, Laui*a ?” he says ; “ the very 
shock of the wicked suspicion itself proves how very rarely 
a Christian minister gives occasion to any thing of the kind ! 
God’s laws of health in Mr. Merkes are as sacred and in- 
flexible as any other of his laws in the Solar System or 
the Ten Commandments. Innocent of this absurd charge, 


The Wedding. 


283 


he suffers from it, as part of his punishment for breaking 
God’s law in reference to health and human nature. Pos- 
sible of liim^ you know !” 

“ Yes, and impossible of you adds Laura. 

But the day comes at last. Hoppleton looks forward 
to it. Hoppleton holds its breath, on the arrival of the 
day, until the ceremony is over, and then lets its breath 
loose again with a “ Well !” 

The ceremony takes, place, of course, in Mr. Burleson’s . 
parlor. Mr. W all performs it. Laura is there. At Anna’s 
nervously reiterated request she spent the previous night 
Avith her and began “ fixing her up ” about daybreak. Hop- 
pleton has to this day serious doubts as to whether or not 
Edward Burleson Avas present. 

“ But, Pa, are you not afraid they’ll be dreadful unhap- 
py ? Their dispositions — all of those children ?” asks Lau- 
ra of her father, the day after the ceremony, in the privacy 
of his study. 

“ My dear Laura,” says her father, “ I have long since 
given up even attempting to understand human nature. 
When you most certainly expect it to be happy it is not 
happy. When you are perfectly certain it must be miser- 
able, it is the exact reverse. I can’t say I would like to 
have seen you marry Mr. Merkes. But,” he continues, 
with a smile, ‘‘ if you had set your heart upon it, I Avould 
have said. Very well.” 

“ You dearest father !” she says, putting her arms 
around his neck. “ I am often tempted to fear you think 
I am a burden. But nobody has come along whom I could 
marry, so far. Don’t blame me. Pa. Pve dressed the best, 
looked the best I could, been just as agreeable to every 
body as I knew how. You know I can’t help myself” 

There is a smile on her lips, but a suspicion of tears, too, 
in her eyes. 


284 


The New Timothy. 


“Be sensible, Laura,” says her father, gravely. “You 
know we would regard your getting married, except so 
far as your own happiness is concerned, as the greatest 
loss that could fall upon us, especially since that willful, 
determined John has gone.” He draws his daughter near- 
er to him and kisses her, the most affectionate father in the 
world ; but, say what you will, it is not to her the arm or 
the kiss of a husband. Her hands linger continually about 
her mother’s and her father’s neck, the tendrils of an ivy 
which has no oak of its own around which to wind. But 
she does not, can not receive from these the affection she 
yearns for. They have for her the perfect love of a mother, 
a father for an only daughter. Vaguely, hungeringly she 
obeys the promptings of nature and seeks of them more 
than this ; seeks, to be vaguely, continually disappointed. 

But, just here, she and Anna Burleson had parted com- 
pany — Anna falling back upon herself into a wretchedness 
which takes even Mr. Merkes as a lesser evil. Very dif- 
ferent Laura Wall, true type of a class of women often the 
loveliest : certainly, of all beings alive, the most purely un- 
selfish and abundant in good works. 


Me. Wall’s Teoubles. 


285 


Chaptee XXV. 

In which Mrs, General Likens enacts the savage Medea to her Offspring. 

S OME three months have passed since General Likens’s 
death. Spring has robed all the woods in green, stoop- 
ing to touch the General’s grave, too, with verdure as it 
passed by. But it is not memories of the General which 
bows the head of the young minister so, as he rides slowly 
past the grave this afternoon. The bridle hangs loosely 
in his hand, and Mike adopts his own gait, pretty much 
his own road. He is thinking. 

He looks up as he passes a turn in the road, and sees 
John walking along home from school before him. She 
by no means brightens, only darkens instead, his train of 
thought : darkens it as a star does the cloud through 
which it breaks. 

“ And here you are, too,” he says to himself, just above 
his breath, “ young and slight ; no father, mother, brother, 
sister — any other relation I have ever heard of in the 
world ; no land, no house, very little money of your own ; 
more like a bird of the forest than any thing else I know; 
plumage, food for the day, a nest for the night, all you have 
or care to have. And yet as self-reliant, as self-possessed, 
as composed, as perfectly confident and happy, too, dear 
me, as — Like nothing else in all the world ! Oh, you 
darling !” 

“ And, oh, you fool !” exclaims something else within him 
— common-sense, conscience, something or other. “You 
ought to have thought of all this before. What is the use 
of indulging in such notions now ? Besides, it is sinful.” 


286 


The New Timothy. 


By this time John, in advance, has heard hoofs behind. 
Seeing who it is, she throws her sun-bonnet off her brow 
upon her shoulders, and stands, all glowing, looking back 
and waiting for him. It is, to him, like leaping into an 
abyss ; but there is no disposition to do any thing else. 
So he dismounts, leads his horse by the bridle to where 
she stands, gives Mike a cut with his whi]^ which sends 
him flying homeward, neighing to himself as he goes, 
“ Better that than the buggy,” and thus Mr. Wall accom- 
panies the young schoolmistress with slow, grave step. 

“ Yes, delightful evening !” he says aloud. And, “ Oh, 
how charming you are !” he says too, but not aloud, and 
with a keen sense, in the same instant, of pleasure and of 
pain. ‘‘ Take care ! take care !” cries the other voice with- 
in him. 

She is charming, she is lovely. That calm, happy light 
of intelligence and feeling which shines from within ! That 
transparent frankness and sincerity ! If I was standing 
beside Burleson on the edge of a precipice,” he says to 
himself, “ I would get away as fast as I could, lest I should 
be tempted to push him over. Out of all the universe she 
is exactly the woman for me, in every respect and exactly. 
And he must interfere. There’s that other, why can he 
not love her / ” 

“ I am glad to see you,” begins John, in an earnest way. 

“ I am happy to hear it !” he says on the spot. 

He knows his full error in the very moment he commits 
it, but eyes, tones, and all go recklessly into his expression. 
She looks inquiringly up at his face for a moment, and then 
the color suffuses cheek, temple, neck. But she rallies 
again after a while. 

“ I am glad to see you, because I wished to speak with 
you about Mrs. General Likens,” says John. 

“ You do not think her really ill ?” asks her companion, 


Mks. General Likens. 


287 


a little alarmed at the path he had been upon the verge 
of entering. “ Engaged to Louisiana ! Engaged to Lou- 
isiana !’’ has been ringing in his ears. 

“ I am puzzled to know what is the matter with her,” 
says John. 

“ I know that she is changed since the General’s death,” 
says her companion. “ Grown suddenly old — growing old- 
er every day rapidly. It has surprised me. Something of 
the kind is natural — her loss, you know. But she has such 
a strong character, I suj)posed she would bear his death 
with more fortitude.” 

“ That was my hope,” adds John. “ She had so much 
the stronger, at least the more active mind of the two. I 
can understand how the General would have missed her 
exceedingly every hour of the day, if she had been taken 
away first. But her affliction at his death is so different 
from what I had supposed it would be.” 

“ I notice every day she seems to take less and less in- 
terest in the house and the farm,” remarks ‘the young min- 
ister. “ The house, too, seems to be in more confusion — 
you have to be so much at that school, you know.” 

There is the faintest tone of dislike to the school in his 
words, and she takes it up on the spot. 

“Teaching is my regular business in life, Mr. Wall,” she 
says. “I am sure all my income is from it. I am very 
glad indeed it is such a pleasant school.” 

“ I beg your pardon,” he says, disliking the school a 
great deal more than ever. “ If you were not so — so hap- 
pily constituted as you are your school would have worn 
you out long ago. Teach? I would rather dig ditches 
than that.” 

“ But we are talking about Mrs. General Likens,” says 
John, pleasantly. 

“ Yes, I rarely hear her scolding the servants now. She 


288 


The New Timothy. 


used to be always going round and round the house and 
yard, like a great bee.” 

“ But she does so still,” adds John. 

“More than ever, if possible,” continues the young min- 
ister ; “ but it is as if only from the force of habit. She 
never is still a moment ; but she does not seem to be inte- 
rested in any thing.” 

“ You can not tell how it pains me,” adds John. “She 
will spin almost violently for a while. Then go to work at 
the loom on some special web or other. Then give it all up 
for her reel or her knitting. And preserving, too ; last year, 
before this time, she had put away a large quantity of ear- 
ly fruit. In fact, it was a positive anxiety with her to 
have all her old supply eaten up out of the way, so that 
she might make more. A few weeks ago she had all the 
fruit gathered, all the sugar got out, all the brass kettles 
scoured and ready. But it was only from the impulse 
of habit. I do not believe she actually did any thing at 
last.” 

“ Do you ever try to console her for her loss ?” 

“No, not of late. She always said, ‘Never mind me, 
child. Don’t fear for me. I’ll bear up under it. I was 
expectin’ it.’ And that is what she always says whenever 
any of the neighbors attempt consolation.” 

“ It is a little singular,” says the young minister, “ her 
not wishing me to read the Bible at family worship. ‘ Pray 
with us, Mr. Wall;’ you remember she said; 'but don’t 
read — at least, not just yet.’ You recollect, whoever led 
in prayer at family worship, the General always read him- 
self He seemed to regard it as a part of his peculiar duty 
as head of the family.” 

“ And her attempting to lead in the Sunday afternoon 
instruction of the negroes,” adds John. “ When she found, 
after two or three Sundays, that she could not do it, her 


Beeaking Down. 


289 


having you preach to them in the old barn every Sunday 
night instead.” 

“His old arm-chair, too,” said her companion, with a 
smile. “ You haven’t forgot. In a forgetful moment I sat 
down in it once — only once, you remember !” 

“ You could make every allowance for her,” says John, 
smiling through her tears. “ The family Bible, too — she 
Trrapped it up in one of his large red silk handkerchiefs. 
It is stowed away under her pillow, I believe.” 

“And she has become so silent, comparatively,” continues 
Mr. Wall. “ She talks on sometimes as if from force of 
habit — talks just to he talking, as she used to. It sounds 
painfully hollow and heartless to me. Does she ever write 
any poetry now ?” 

“ You know it has been her ruling passion,” says John, 
throwing her deep bonnet more off her fair face and look- 
ing at her companion, balanced between a smile and tears. 
“She has a whole trunkful in a closet under the stairs. 
I do believe she has read nearly the whole of it to me — 
some of it over and over again. And I tell you there is 
real poetry among it, too ; a little too rough, too straight- 
forward ; but some really vigorous lines. If she only had 
been thoroughly educated ! And she used to write al- 
most every night at the little desk in the corner by the 
bed. Her having me to read it to seemed to be a fresh 
stimulus to her after I came. And this is what I wished 
to speak to you about. In the last few weeks she has at- 
tempted often to write. I notice her after I go to bed. I 
never saw a line of it, but I know what it is. She was at- 
tempting to write some lines upon the General, or upon his 
death. But she always gives it up — leans her head on the 
desk and weeps instead. She thinks I am asleep. I do 
believe she has abandoned the effort now altogether. I 
was very unfortunate a few days ago. I said to her, ‘ Sup- 

19 


290 


The New Timothy. 


pose you let me copy out some of your best pieces in a 
blank book ?’ I thought it might amuse her. But she re- 
fused. ‘ Pshaw ! nonsense, child !’ she said, as if perfectly 
indifferent. Last night, after I was asleep, I was wakened 
by a sudden blaze of light in the room. There was Mrs. 
General Likens seated on the floor by the hearth. She had 
dragged out the trunk from the closet, and was slowly 
burning up every thing in it, one sheet at a time, in the 
fireplace. I was on the point of trying to persuade her 
not, yet thought it better to leave her uninterrupted. But 
to see her there at midnight, at such a work, her pale old 
face lighted up by the glare ! I am afraid my offer before 
only reminded her to do it»” 

“ And there was nothing in the world she seemed to prize 
more than her poetry,” said Mr. Wall. 

‘‘Nothing,” exclaimed John; “and that made it seem 
worse. It may be foolish in me, but it looked as if she 
were burning asunder the last tie that held her to earth.” 

“ In other words,” said the young minister, after a while, 
“ she really and sincerely loved her husband — loved him !” 

It was singular with what pleasure Mr. Wall dwelt upon 
that word “ loved.” 

“ And they had lived together so long,” said John, soft- 
ly, and coloring in echo to her companion’s tones. “ More 
than thirty years. So used to each other.” 

It was dangerous. Such a soft evening; so quiet and 
balmy the air ; so still and silent the woods through which 
wound their path. Only the weight of a leaf to break the 
balance of his purpose is needed. The young minister is 
alarmed for himself “ Engaged ! engaged !” cries the 
ghost in the cellar ; so loud, too, he is almost afraid his fair 
companion will hear it also. 

Perhaps she has, for she has quickened her gait decidedly. 


Mk. Wall Wakned. 


291 


Chapter XXVI. 

Mr. Boh Long finds Something tougher than Greek or Hebrew. 

13 E Strictly honorable, Wall, my fine fellow !” Burleson 
had once said. It was the last time that young 
lawyer’s pressing “ business ” had called him, incidentally, 
into the Likens neighborhood. He said it as he parted from 
Mr. Wall at the General’s front gate, after a somewhat pro- 
tracted visit. 

“ I live in Hoppleton,” he had argued with his old col- 
lege friend, ‘‘and you live here. Unfortunately for me, 
Miss John too lives here. Unfortunately — I hope you re- 
gard it so — for you. Miss Mills lives in Hoppleton. Xow 
don’t get things mixed up. Wall. Before you got to be so 
bearded and stout and ruddy you used to be absent-mind- 
ed — in the Seminary, you remember. Don’t be that in this 
matter. Don’t mistake one of these young ladies for the 
other, whatever you do. They are not in the least alike, 
and you know it.” 

“I don’t understand you — ” Mr. Wall had begun to say. 
But that was false ; he did, perfectly ; so he said nothing 
at all, was only very dignified — quite like Mr. Merkes. 

“ Of course you don’t understand me,” said the other 
gentleman, on his seat in his buggy and gathering up the 
reins. “Not at all. Only remember a friend of yours ad- 
mires and loves, above all things in the world, a certain 
lady of your acquaintance, unfortunately. And you are 
actually — ahem! — engaged to somebody in Hoppleton. 
An admirable match, my dear fellow ! Blooming Miss 


292 


The New Timothy. 


Loo ! Admirable ! You couldn’t do better ! Now don’t 
you interrupt my little plans, and I won’t interrupt yours. 
And I will add this, Wall,” he continues, taking his whip 
in his left hand with the reins, to lay the right hand gravely 
on his friend’s shoulder : “ you know I don’t profess to have 
any purpose in life — perfectly devil-may-care ; and I don’t 
have any except — John Easton. Headlong I go to the — 
Adversary you preach about — if I fail to win her. My 
soul’s at stake — look out ! You know all. Honor and fair 
play, Carolus meus f ” 

And with a nod of his handsome head and a shake of the 
reins on black Bob, he is gone. Gone, leaving his friend 
very indignant, if only there were not a vague, creeping 
sense of almost guilt which rises up against it. “ And yet 
what have I done, or said ?” he asks himself. 

It all comes back to mind as he walks beside the fair 
temptress this lovely evening. And perhaps they actual- 
ly are engaged,” he thinks to himself “ But even suppos- 
ing they are not engaged, what good will that do me ? I 
am engaged.” And off he goes in unpleasant meditations. 
He is enumerating to himself, by way of offset against 
John, all Miss Louisiana Mills’s excellences. She is so 
beautiful, and — and — Try it again. She has such beau- 
tiful teeth, and silken hair, and exquisite complexion, and — 
and — Stop ! She laughs so much, and with such a silvery 
peal, and — She wears such beautiful dresses, and — Yes, 
her fingers on the keys of the piano are so very white ! 
For his life he can not recall, or even plausibly invent, an- 
other excellence, trait even, for Miss Loo. “ And I am ac- 
tually engaged — ” 

“ Do you really think they are actually engaged ?” says 
his companion, looking into his face with a smile. 

“ What ? I beg your pardon,” he says, with quite a 
start. 


Mr. Long Engaged. 


293 


“ I am afraid you are getting as absent-minded as you 
used to be,” says John, coloring violently at his tones and 
manner. “ It was about Miss Araminta I was speaking. 
You did not hear me.” By his exclamation she under- 
stood the whole of his reverie perfectly. She was heartily 
sorry — alarmed — she had asked the question. He seizes 
upon it gladly, however. 

“ Ah ! oh, yes !” he says. “ Miss Allen and Mr. Long ! 
I don’t wonder you are curious. It is no secret. Aston- 
ishing, is it not ?” 

He is delighted with the new topic, and proceeds to tell 
her all about it. He had learned it on the last of his many 
visits to Mr. Long’s cabin in the woods. Generally he 
had found that gentleman busily engaged washing out his 
rifle, mending his shot-pouches, casting bullets, cutting 
wood for his fire, doing something or other to the skin of 
some animal recently slain, and like employments. Now 
he found him sitting idly on the sill of his cabin door, not 
even his knife in his hand, only biting at the ends of his 
disordered beard, and looking into the forest glowing with 
the lights and shades of the setting sun. He received his 
visitor cordially, but, that visitor could not help noticing, 
in an abstracted manner. Mr. Long’s mind was occupied 
— was perplexed. Whatever the subject before him, 
Greek or Hebrew or Doc. Meggar, he had evidently been 
studying it over for hours, and had not finished that proc- 
ess either by a good deal. There was painful uncertainty 
in Mr. Long’s eye, in Mr. Long’s manner. His welcome 
to his visitor was almost mechanical. The manner in 
which he sliced the venison, too, from the haunch suspend- 
ed in the chimney corner, and proceeded to broil it, indi- 
cated a preoccupied and troubled mind. His heart was 
evidently not in the dough, even while he made it up and 
proceeded to bake it in the old one-legged skillet. Any 


294 


The New TimothYo 


one could see by the way he ground the coffee in the mill 
nailed to the wall that he was reckless of the results of 
his grinding. But when he asked blessing himself over 
the meal, instead of inviting his pastor to do so, as usual 
on such a visit, that pastor became uneasy. “ Can I have 
offended him in any way ?” he asked himself once or twice. 
He knew he had not. It was an idea that savored of Mr. 
Merkes, and he cast it out. But when, after supper, Mr. 
Long laid the usual books on the table, and his heart evi- 
dently not at all in doing so, then his visitor became ideal- 
ly alarmed. 

“ My dear Mr. Long,” he said, frankly, “ what is the 
matter with you ?” 

“ I kind o’ thought all along it w^as to be 3/01^,” answer- 
ed that gentleman from the other side of the rough table, 
his right arm rested upon the Hebrew Bible open before 
him, his left hand busy curling the corner of his beard into 
little strands, and inserting the ends thereof into his mouth. 
“ Somebody told me, I’m sure ; I disremember who. It 
was somehody^ I know.” There was the accent of com- 
plaint in Mr. Long’s remark. 

‘‘ Told you what ?” inquired his visitor. 

“ It may hev been the General before he died, or it may 
hev been his wife. Doc. Meggar? No, it couldn’t hev 
been Doc. ; he couldn’t a’ knowed. It was somebody^ I 
know !” Mr. Long would seem to be indignant, if it were 
not that he is so evidently troubled in mind. 

“ But told you what demanded his visitor, coloring. 
Is it possible, he thinks, that any reports injurious to my 
character can be in circulation ? 

“ Told me you was to be the man ! Told me she was 
- goin’ to marry youP'^ replied his host, looking at him anx- 
iously. 

“ But whom are you speaking of?” demands the young 


Mr. Long’s Dubitations. 


295 


minister, and with an almost guilty feeling in regard to 
Miss Louisiana. It is surprising how his face burns ! 

“ There’s just this one thing I want to say to you, Mr. 
Wall,” says Mr. Long, with more of the troubled expres- 
sion than before ; “ that is, it ain’t too late for you yet. 
We are by ourselves here in these woods. Nobody need 
never know nothin’ about it. If you only say so, I’m wil- 
lin’. Don’t you think I’m not willin’ ; I am willin’ ! I 
hev lived so long here by myself in this old cabin I don’t 
keer as much about such things as perhaps you do. I 
ain’t ready like for a notion of that sort. It is so sudden 
too.” 

“ I declare — ” began the young minister. 

“ Don’t you fear about hurtin’ my feelin’s,” interrupted 
his friend, with alacrity. “ You’re more than welcome to 
count me out. Only you go ahead ; I won’t interrupt. 
An’ don’t think a minute you disappint me. You dori^t 
disappint me !” said Mr. Long, with amazing energy. 
“ You don’t disappint me ! Not a bit. In fact, I’d take 
it as a partic’lar favor if you would just go ahead.” 

“ Mr. Long,” said his guest, amazedly, “ I have not the 
faintest idea of what you are talking about.” 

“Didn’t you ever expect — didn’t you ever intend to 
marry her ?” asked Mr. Long, boldly too. 

“ Marry whom ?” asks his guest, with considerable em- 
phasis on the last word. 

“ Why her^ of course — Miss Araminta Allen eyes 
never fixed more eagerly upon deer or wild-cat than now 
upon those of his visitor. 

“Never!” replied his guest, with unbounded energy. 
“ What on earth put such an idea in your head ?” Mr. 
Wall is a little indignant as well as amazed. 

“ You didn’t ?” said Mr. Long, after a gloomy pause. 
“ Well, somebody told me so. Perhaps I dreamed it. A 


296 


The New Timothy. 


drownin’ man, you know — a straw.” There was deep dis- 
appointment in Mr. Long’s tones, and he pulled more slow- 
ly at the ends of his beard, more thoughtful, more troubled 
than before. 

“But why should that trouble you?” asks his visitor, 
innocently. 

“ Miss Allen is a nice lady. I never said she wasn’t,” 
remarks the hunter, meditatively. “She’s got powerful 
energy. She ain’t exactly pretty — not at all like that Miss 
John, for instance — but then she ain’t what a man would 
call ugly. No. I reckon not. But it isn’t that. You. 
see I ain’t used to bein’ married. Besides, 1 ain’t prepared 
for it. Likewise I ain’t ready a bit. Hev I got any fixins 
for it ? I want to know ! Besides, farming ? What do 1 
know about farming ? Now if it was hunting ! An’ them 
niggers of hers. ‘ They need lambasting, every one of 
them,’ she says to me ; ‘ they’re dyin’ for it, Mr. Long,’ 
says she. ‘ I can’t do nothin’ with them, now General 
Likens is dead ; they run over me,’ says she. Well, 1 
ain’t the hand to look after black ones. It’s a thing I 
ha’n’t no experience in. What would you do about it, Mr. 
Wall?” And Mr. Long regards his pastor anxiously. 

“ It would seem as if you are actually engaged to the 
lady. Why did you not think of all that before ?” asks 
Mr. Wall, his disposition to merriment over the rueful rea- 
soning of his friend considerably checked by his own use 
of the word “ engaged.” It is, of all the dictionary, the 
unpleasantest word to him. 

“ But, you see, I didn’t know I was goin’ to be engaged 
till I act’ly was engaged,” says Mr. Long, very jiromptly 
in vindication. 

“ But, then, how did you become engaged ?” asks the 
other. “ I confess I don’t exactly understand.” 

“ You understand it just as much as I do,” retorted Mr. 


Ara^nta Allen’s Wooing. 


297 


Lon^. “ Two minutes before it happened I tell you Id no 
more a notion such a thing was goin’ to happen — ” Mr. 
Long sj)eaks with the most earnest truthfulness, 

“ Yes, but — ” begins Mr. Wall. Very faintly, however ; 
he has had his own experiences. 

“ You see,” continued the hunter, with energy, she ask- 
ed me if I couldn’t bring her some venison some time. I 
remember, it was that day we buried General Likens she 
first asked me. But I didn’t. I was shy like. ‘ You 
haven’t brought me that venison, Mr. Long,’ she says to 
me next time she sees me at church, smilin’ too. ‘ Haven’t 
been able to shoot any, perhaps,’ she says. I couldn’t say 
yes to that. I had killed plenty after seein’ her. ‘If you 
should manage to kill any deer-meat,’ she says to me, smil- 
in’, ‘ I’ll be glad to buy it. You needn’t be afraid I won’t 
pay you,’ says she. An’ so it went on. Yes, I took her 
some. Oh yes, I took her some,” continued Mr. Long, 
biting reflectively at his beard. “ And then I had to take 
her some again. Then she had set her heart on a pet 
bear cub, an’ I had that to get. Then she couldn’t live 
another day without a little wild honey — did I know of 
any bee-tree? Yes, I did know of a bee-tree — fifty. 
What’s the use ?” says Mr. Long, summing up abruptly 
and rising from the table. “ However it’s come about, one 
thing's certain : we two are engaged to get married, an’ 
mighty soon at that !” And the hunter took up his rifle 
instinctively from the corner of the room, weighed it in 
both hands held palm upward, glancing his eyes lingering- 
ly along it, put it down again discontentedly. “ An’ about 
this here Hebrew,” he continued, pausing by the table as he 
walked restlessly to and fro, turning over the exceedingly 
soiled leaves of the open book with loving finger — “ what 
about I’d like to know ? Occupy my mind an’ my 
time ! Somethin’ to keep me hard at it away from all 


298 


The New Timothy. 


sorts of devilment ? Hah, yes ! I’ll have that enough now, 
let alone Greek an’ Hebrew !” and he continued his rest- 
less walk about the cabin. “ You won’t mention it, of 
course,” he said at last, pausing a moment to make the 
solemn announcement, “ but I’ve weighed the two, the one 
against the other, an’ of the two I prefer the Hebrew. 
Yes,” added Mr. Long, after standing a moment in fur- 
ther reflection, “ it’s the Hebrew here I pre-fer ! Tough ? 
Yes ; who said it was not tough ? But it’s the easiest 
handled. Ah, yes, never mind !” adds Mr. Long, pursuing 
his walk and his meditations. “ But what’s the use ? It’s 
all settled. She settled it ! Never was so as-tonished in 
all my life as I was there that day !” he adds to himself 
rather than to his guest, as he walks up and down. 

‘‘I am to perform the cei'emony, I suppose,” said his 
friend at length, to manifest his sympathy in some way. 

“ Strange, she wouldn’t hear to it at first,” said Mr. Long, 
pausing a moment. “ ‘ Any body rather than him P she 
says, mad like. Hah !” exclaimed Mr. Long, as the idea 
struck him, “ that must ’a been the way I come to think 
there’d been somethin’ between her an’ you, Mr. \Yall, onst. 
‘Any body rather than him P she says, says she. Hah, 
yes ! She was so set like, the notion flashed on me sudden, 
Here’s your way to get out of it. Bob ! So I said, slow an’ 
solemn, ‘ Very well. Miss Allen ; it’s him or nobody !’ You 
see, I was frightened at the idea of gettin’ married to any 
body — a’n’t over it yet. I expected she would blaze out 
— have her own way ; mules, you know, an’ women will. 
But no. She looked up at me, surprised like, an’ said, as 
gentle ! ‘ Very well, Mr. Long, if you think best.’ ‘ An’ 
Doc. Meggar is to wait on me,’ I said. Doc. Meggar ! 
Knowin’, too, how onst she’d as lief a rattlesnake ’d come 
into her house. It looks bad in me, Mr. Wall, I know,” 
continued Mr. Long, apologetically, “ but I was real skear- 


Forebodings. 


299 


ed at the idea of gettin’ married — not over it yet. ‘ As 
you please, Robert,’ says she, right off. It was mean in 
me, real mean,” continued Mr. Long, walking the floor of 
the cabin slowly and thoughtfully. “ Ah, well ” — he stop- 
ped to say it — “ if I liei) got to be married. I’d just as lief 
it was to her as to any body else.” 

“ It’s my opinion you should feel highly flattered by her 
preference,” said his companion, gravely. 

“ That’s just one thing more I’d like to know the best in 
the world,” said Mr. Long, facing full around on his guest. 
“ What in the world did she see in me to take a fancy to 
me, I want to know? It’s that puzzles me worst of all.” 
And he stroked his beard and waited with honest, hand- 
some face a solution of his difficulty. 

Perhaps Miss Anna Burleson could have told him. And 
it was with a laughing sketch of this visit to Mr. Long’s 
cabin that the young minister entertained his companion. 
At least, he gave her the substance of it. No sooner do 
they come in distant sight of Mrs. General Likens’s, how- 
ever, than they are interrupted. It is Moll, the house-girl, 
who has been waiting to catch Miss John on the way home, 
in a corner of the fence where the lane begins. 

“ Oh, Miss John !” she begins, “ I wish you wouldn’t 
leave ole missis. She won’t say so, but she’s sick, heart- 
sick. Wus to-day than ever. Please hurry home. Oh, 
Mass Wall ! pray de Lord for ole missis. She need it.” 


300 


The New Timothy, 


Chapter XXVII. 

Mr, Charles Wall makes his terrible and hairbreadth Escape, 

I F the writer of these pages had at this moment the 
whole race before him, every ear and eye attent, he 
would dare say to said assembly : If there be a man or 
woman among you without some thorn, great or little, in 
flesh or spirit, you will please step forward and accept from 
me a million of dollars in gold ! Yes, would dare say it, 
nor risk a cent thereby, provided no man or woman lied in 
the matter ! You who read these lines know perfectly 
well that you could not claim the million. 

The one of young Mr. Wall’s troubles over which he 
most worries these days, which keeps him awake o’ nights, 
too, is the perpetual demand he makes upon himself, “How 
can I honorably break with Miss Loo ?” 

It was the unhappiness of the young minister, when, some 
two weeks after the events recorded in the last chapter, 
he stood before the door of Colonel Mills in Hoppleton, 
that he was there, after months of reflection, to correct a 
mistake. It is his mistake he has to correct — a terrible 
mistake and he must correct it. But how to do it. Upon 
that question he had spent intense thought. 

He had thought of accomplishing his object by a letter 
to the lady ; but there was something mean in that — some- 
thing cowardly, like shooting at a distance and from behind 
a cover. In his desperation he had even thought of de- 
volving the duty of correcting his mistake in some delicate 
way upon his cousin Laura Wall. But that was even more 


Correcting a Mistake. 


301 


cowardly. Besides, he dreaded lest the task would he in- 
dignantly declined ; or, if undertaken, would, in some 
vague way, wreck and ruin the kind undertaker. And 
now, at last, he has done what he ought simply to have 
done — and he knew it at the time — at first. He is come in 
person, in a frank and manly way, to correct his mistake. 

He knocks, and is shown into the parlor. There it is, 
that sofa ! Not for worlds would he sit on it again. He 
takes a chair instead — a hard-hacked, uncompromising par- 
lor chair. Miss Louisiana keeps him Avaiting some time, 
and he begins again, as he sits, the old hopeless task of ar- 
ranging Avhat to say and how to say it. It is useless. He 
gives it up in despair. In the midst of it there is the sound 
of feet upon the floor. The door opens, and in comes Miss 
Louisiana, hut accompanied hy her mother. . The visitor 
feels immensely relieved. How not to greet her, as of old, 
with a kiss on entering had heen the stumhling-hlock in 
the very threshold of the matter ; and that question is set- 
tled ! In a glance the Ausitor notices hoAV very much 
stouter Miss Louisiana has groAvn since he saAV her on his 
last visit, Aveeks ago. As she comes in side hy side with 
her mother, he observes, too, how Avonderfully like that 
mother she is groAving to he, and the observation is hy no 
means flattering to the young lady. As to tlie rest, Mrs. 
Mills and her daughter are the same in their manner as 
ever. With a ludicrous consciousness of a resemblance to 
Mr. Long, Mr. Wall begins about the health, and then the 
Aveather; checks himself as he comes to the crops. All 
very well so far, hut the main matter is not settled — is not 
even approached as yet. 

“ And so you are not going to the city at last ?” asks Mrs. 
Mills, after a tour of the parlor, pulling at the curtains, ar- 
ranging the hooks on the centre-table, the ornaments on 
the mantel, as she goes. 


302 


The New Timothy. 


“ No, Madam,” says the visitor, with a blind sense of ap- 
proaching relief. 

“ Actually going to live in that Likens neighborhood ? 
Going to settle down there ?” inquires Mrs. Mills again. 

“ Yes, Madam. At least, so far as I can now see,” replies 
the visitor, with still greater sense of relief. 

“In that dull country place, Mr. Wall ? Law me, I 
wonder how you can stand it !” says Louisiana, with a peal 
of laughter. “ Only chickens and pigs and people !” 

“ Oh, it is not at all dull to one as busy there as I am,” 
replies Mr. Wall, more and more relieved in mind. 

“ I know I never could live in such a place. Lawsy ! I 
would die in a week !” says Miss Loo, with unbounded 
mirth at the very idea. 

Mr. Wall feels his cheeks glowing. He knows that the 
Hour has arrived, and that he is the Man. He begins : 

“ I am glad to have the opportunity of seeing you this 
afternoon, Mrs. Mills. I have feared — ” 

“Law me, Mr. Wall,” inteiqDoses good Mrs. Mills, “we 
all along — Colonel Mills and me — knew it would never suit. 
You see we know Loo, here, a great deal better than you. 
Law me, didn’t we raise her ? She isn’t fitten to be a min- 
ister’s wife — law me, no !” 

What a plain and easy settlement of matters. After so 
many, many weeks of embarrassing planning, contriving, 
bothering himself to death, too, on the part of the ex-lover. 
“ Henceforth I will let things settle themselves,” thinks 
the young minister. But there is a faint sense of pain, too, 
why he can not tell, even in this moment of immense relief. 
Miss Loo is so very beautiful ! 

At this juncture Colonel Mills enters the room. The vis- 
itor wonders if he had not been sent for by the back way 
when he first entered the house. However, here the Col- 
onel is, as large and round and red as ever. He is glad to 


One Mistake Corrected. 


303 


see Mr. Wall. Very glad; but he plays with the heavy 
seals which hang at such a tangent from the lower edge 
of his white waistcoat, as if he was anxious too — had some- 
thing to do — something momentous to say, at least. 

“ I was just telling Mr. Wall, my dear, that Loo and he 
would never do at all. You know %oe always knew that. 
Law me, Mr. Wall — a minister’s wife ! Loo, here, is no 
more fitten for it — ” says Mrs. Mills. 

‘‘ But what do you regard as a qualification for it, Mrs. 
Mills ?” asks her visitor, now entirely at his ease, save that 
dull pain. So is the Colonel ; at least he plays not so nerv- 
ously with his dangling seals. 

“A minister’s wife! law me, Mr. Wall ! Why, Loo here 
is so lazy ! Much as I can do to get her up in time for 
breakfast. Besides, she is so fond of dress — you know you 
are, child. It’s a regular shame. Loo ? Law me !” con- 
tinues her mother, with the energy of entire conviction. 
“ She isn’t good for any thing on earth but to eat custards 
and things and be petted. Me and the Colonel here, we’ve 
spoiled her shameful.” 

“ No, Mr. Wall, it would never do,” says the husband, 
coming to the assistance of his wife. “We always knew 
it — Mrs. Mills and 1. Never do ! And Loo is not relig- 
iously disposed. Not at all. It is to be regretted, but she 
isn’t. She couldn’t feel with you about converting souls, 
and such like.” 

“ Besides,” urges the mother ; “ why, Mr. Wall, it would 
take a regular rich man to marry Loo. Ministers don’t 
make money any thing like other people. Law me. Loo ? 
Why, she’d break you — break you all to pieces in one year. 
Colonel and me ought to know ! Nothing to laugh at, child. 
You ought to be ashamed of the way you spend money. 
That very silk you got on now cost your Pa over fifty dol- 
lars. And them bracelets — Colonel, what did they cost ?” 


304 


The New Timothy. 


But the young minister has been on his feet now fol 
some time. He stands by the mantel entirely at home. 
Never so much so in that parlor before as he is now. There 
lingers that dull pain low down in his bosom somewhere. 
To give this lovely girl up, here and now and forever ! But 
it doesn’t matter ! Except that, he feels comfortable, is al- 
most amused at the sudden and natural solution of all his 
troubles. 

Louisiana fills the sofa, serene and smiling as ever. There 
is a lingering anxiety still visible on the faces of the Colonel 
and his wife — a little sense of shame. They do not know 
how their visitor will bear the blow. 

“ It is due myself to say just one word,” says the young 
minister with a quiet dignity felt by all there. “ For a long 
time now I, too, have been satisfied that Miss Louisiana 
and myself are not suited to eacli other. I came to Hop- 
pleton for this purpose, to see — to say — I am glad it is 
all pleasantly arranged. Yes, a minister’s life is a hard 
one. In some respects at least. I don’t think myself it 
would suit you. Miss Loo. It is best as it is. But I must 
bid you good-bye. Good-bye, Colonel. I will be glad to 
see you if you should visit our neighborhood. Mrs. Mills 
— but you never get away from Hoppleton, I believe and 
their visitor shook hands warmly with each. “ Good-bye, 
Miss Loo and he took her white, soft hand in his. 

Ah, that low, sullen pain. She is so very beautiful ! 
“ You must visit our neighborhood when fruit is ripe ; 
come up with your father, we will be glad to see you 
and with a quiet bow and “Good-evening” to all, he is 
gone. 

Yes, it would be a kind of heaven to marry beautiful 
Miss Loo and sit in that comfortable parlor by her side 
forever. “Eat and drink and — drift !” he says to himself 
as he walks away, the sullen pain a decided one. “ Per- 


A Little Disappointed. 


305 


haps all my notions of life are a fanaticism. Who knows 
hut Mr. Merkes hoped and looked forward when he was 
young exactly as I now do ? Mr. Merkes !” And Mr. 
Wall halts and says, “ If I had it to do over again ? I 
wonder, at last, if I am not a fool !” 

The Colonel and his wife are a little astounded, even in- 
dignant, but infinitely relieved too. One thing they both 
feel — a sense of the highest respect for their visitor — a 
sense of superiority on his part they had not before imag- 
ined. As to Miss Loo, she is disapjDointed thaft he did not 
take a more affectionate farewell in parting. There is a 
singular flutter and sense of failing under her bodice, akin 
to a feeling very often felt, lower down, of hunger, sharply 
felt now. “ Law me !” she says, with a laugh, when the 
front-door has closed ; and then, “ Oh lawsy, Ma, ain’t you 
ashamed of yourself!” and a burst of tears. 

‘‘ That young Wall is what I call a sensible fellow,” re- 
marks the Colonel to his wife that night as he winds up 
his watch in their chamber. His remark is the result of 
several hours’ full reflection on the subject. 

“ You may say what you please. Colonel,” replies his 
wife, as she ties the strings of her night-cap in the folds of 
her double chin, “ but it had better be him at last than 
that young Burleson. He may have money. Yes, he’s 
got money ; but he’ll help her spend it, I tell you ! And 
he isn’t settled down to business, and you know it. I hear 
say he drinks. I don’t know. Gambles, maybe. I’ve been 
thinking it all over. Colonel ; and I just tell you this : we’d 
better ’a trusted our Loo in the hands of the other. I’d 
feel safer, for one.” 

“ But he came up to Hoppleton to break it off himself,” 
said the Colonel, who looked more globular, but by no 
means so wealthy, now the broadcloth and watch-seals 
were off. 


306 


The New Timothy. 


“ That’s a fact — yes,” said the wife. There was a regret 
ill her tones which was highly flattering to the departed 
lover. “ Ah, well, I hope I may be mistaken about the 
other,” she added, in accents which young Burleson would 
by no means have been pleased to hear. “ And I hate so 
to disappoint good Mr. Wall, his uncle. And Mrs. Wall. 
They don’t care for money themselves, not a bit. But, 
bless you, they’d both, Mr. Wall especially, set their hearts 
on his marrying Loo. I tell you. Colonel Mills,” Mrs. Mills 
continues, “ property is— property ! The most pious peo- 
ple in the world think a dreadful deal of it. No wonder ! 
Suppose Loo had none! It’s— every things Mrs. Mills 
adds, with emphasis unspeakable. 


Fkiends and Rivals. 


307 


Chapter XXVIII. 

Facilis est Descensus — JBut why is the old Quotation so very hackneyed ? 

O NE Other duty remains to the young minister. He 
is a vast deal stronger for it now that the other has 
been performed. He goes direct from Colonel Mills’s to 
Edward Burleson’s office. It is getting towards dusk, and 
the young lawyer is seated by his window, his chair tilted 
back, his feet on the table among the books, papers, and 
inkstands, a cigar in his mouth, a novel in his hand. The 
office is a perfect tangle of old boots, half-worn slippers, 
empty cigar-boxes, old newspapers, paper-covered novels, 
half a dozen empty porter-bottles, and any number of law- 
books, dusty enough, but showing no evidence of being 
much used. The floor is dirty and stained with tobacco 
juice beyond belief. There is an aspect of neglect, of 
reckless indifierence in every thing, culminating in the 
owner himself The young lawyer is by no means the 
same man he was on his arrival with Wall from college, 
more than a year ago now. He is changed, greatly 
changed. Perhaps if he was washed and shaved a little, 
and dressed with more care, he would look better. As it 
is, he seems to his visitor older by a great deal. Consider- 
ably stouter too, flushed and haggard — coarser in some 
way than his visitor could ever have supposed it possible 
of him. 

“Glad to see you. Wall — glad to see you,” he says to 
his visitor. “ Take a chair, if you can find one that isn’t 
broken. When did you come down ? How well and 


308 


The New Timothy. 


hearty you look — so straight and strong! And such a 
beard — don’t you know it is wicked? They would have 
turned you out of the Seminary for such a sin. Have a 
cigar ? What’s all the news ?” 

His visitor declines the cigar, and has no news — genial 
enough with his old associate, but separated from him as 
by some bottomless gulf now. What is it ? he asks him- 
self — what is it ? 

News ? No ; nothing new with us,” says Burleson, in 
reply to his questions. “Anna has married that sepul- 
chral Mr. Merkes. Two or three weeks ago. They said 
he had struck his girl a blow too hard — killed it. I don’t 
know, but wouldn’t be the least surprised if he really did. 
You know, or, rather, you don’t know the women. I think 
Anna would have given him up — an awful dose he was — 
but for that. It rallied her to him. Strange sex ! Rath- 
er queer set, all of us ! I suppose you heard of it. Nice 
couple !” 

“ And how do you like the law by this time ?” asks his 
visitor with sincere interest, after further conversation. 

“ Oh, hang the law !” replies Burleson. “ What a goose 
you are to ask such a question ! Might as well ask any 
other swindler how he likes swindling by this time. And 
how is old General Likens ? Ah, yes, dead ; I had forgot- 
ten. Dull old chap. Sort of caryatides to support the 
household roof. Always in the same chair — always smok- 
ing ; queer old genius !” 

“ But that Anderson case,” persisted his visitor. “ You 
can not tell what a name it has given you among the peo- 
ple as a lawyer. I was truly glad — ” 

“ Look here. Wall,” interrupted Burleson. “ Listen a mo- 
ment. There was once a worthless young fellow who per- 
suaded a beautiful young girl to run away with him — for her 
money, mind. As soon as he gets that he begins a course 


A Lawyer about Lawyers. 


309 


of brutal treatment — keeps it up for years — murders her at 
last outright with poison. That is Anderson ! The people 
were for lynching him on the spot. He was rescued and 
put in the jail here. The thought struck me. I took his 
case. '‘You are too intelligent, too just, to permit your- 
selves to be carried away with the passion of the moment,’ 
I said to the twelve fools on the jury. It was after I had 
got the trial put olf once or twice, the witnesses tangled 
up, and all that. I do not know what devil possessed me. 
I argued, plead, appealed to them as being this and being 
that — fathers, mothers, perhaps. Would you believe it? 
They actually acquitted that man ! I only tried it to see 
just how much villainy the law — mind you, the law — is 
capable of committing. But it was too late when the man 
actually was acquitted — the dastardly, cold-blooded mur- 
derer of his miserable wife ! She had poisoned herself — 
that was my theory, you see. As if he had not driven her 
to it, even if she had. And my own mother congratulated 
me on my eloquence ! My father, delighted at my suc- 
cess, though he must know the man murdered his wife ! 
That is the nature of my triumph. Glorious profession! 
You are a minister of God and the Gospel. Know what a 
lawyer is ? A minister of the devil and of crime 1 Simple 
statistic, if ever there was one !” And the young lawyer 
resumes his cigar. 

“ But, really now, do you take no interest in your pro- 
fession, all that apart?” asks his visitor, even anxiously, 
after a pause. 

“ Ask yourself,” is the reply. “ Do you take any real 
interest in your profession ? Sincerely, now, eh ?” 

“ Of course I do 1” exclaims the young minister, with en- 
ergy. “ You know I do !” 

‘‘ Yes, I really believe you do,” says Burleson, after a 
pause. “ But there’s a difference in our professions, you 


310 


The New Timothy. 


see. Y ours is God’s work ; mine is the devil’s. It is im- 
possible, my dear fellow, to become thoroughly interested in 
my profession except by becoming thoroughly a scoundrel. 
Do let us talk about something else. How is that gifted 
old female, Mrs. Likens ? Always reminds me of — Arachne, 
wasn’t it? — the mother of all the spiders, or the woman 
that was turned into a spider — something of the sort. How 
she could talk ! It was that killed the General — not a 
doubt of it. Ought to be hung for it with a rope from her 
own yarn.” 

“ But why do you not enter some other business, Burle- 
son, if you are so prejudiced against the law?” 

“ Become a merchant, eh ? Why should I ? I certain- 
ly have ample opportunities to lie and cheat as I am, with- 
out going behind a counter to do it.” 

“ But there is the political career — ” 

“ And don’t you know, my dear fellow, what it is to be a 
politician ? Is it possible you can be so excedingly ig- 
norant ? A lawyer is a man only going to the devil ; a 
politician is a man actually gone to the devil ! Hadn’t yoil 
better suggest I should be an Editor, say ? You a preach- 
er, and making such infernal suggestions ! I’m astonished 
at you. No wonder, however. All your life you have 
lived in the seminary or in the woods — it is little you know 
of this present evil world.” ^ 

‘‘ But what do you mean to do, Burleson, in life ? You 
must excuse me — we are such old friends.” 

“ Oh, you are welcome !” said Burleson, lighting another 
cigar. “ Do ? I don’t mean to do any thing. Do ?” he 
continued, lying farther back in his chair, crossing his legs 
more comfortably over each other on the table. “ There 
is just one thing I intend to do — know what that is ?” 

His old friend sat looking anxiously at him. 

‘‘ Drift !” said Burleson, composedly, between two puffs. 


A Lay Sermoi^^. 


311 


“ And — downward !” added his friend, slowly, and as if 
speaking to himself. 

And — downward,” repeated Burleson after him, “Yes. 
precisely. Especially as — never mind.” 

The young minister rose and walked across the room to 
the other window, and stood for minutes looking out. A 
close observer might have detected a scarcely perceptible 
motion of his lips, perha23S in prayer, while he stood with 
his back to the young lawyer, who continued to smoke 
with a kind of indifferent enjoyment. 

“ Burleson, my dear old chum,” said his visitor, coming 
back after a while and resuming his seat, ‘‘ can I say nothing 
to you — ” 

“ Wall, my old friend,” interrupted the other, “ you may 
sit here and talk to me steadily the night through, if you 
say so. There’s a whole box of candles under my bed in 
the other room. You see this box of cigars is just opened. 
And I wdll listen to every word you have to say with all 
my might. But I tell you from the start it’s no use. None 
in the world ! You have often tried it before — faithfully. 
I’m fifty times worse now. It is too late. I’ll give you a 
text for your next sermon. I don’t know in what part of 
the Bible it is ; it’s a book I never open these days. But 
it is this: ‘My Spirit shall not always strive.’ Use my 
case as an illustration, and you can make a powerful dis- 
course of it.*' I do believe,” continued the young lawyer, 
smoking reflectively, “ if I could bend myself to the Avork, 
I could write as splendid a sermon on that text as was 
ever written on any text by mortal man. How I could 
preach it too ! And, by-the-by. Wall, I am glad to hear 
you are turning out to be such a good preacher. A slim 
chance I thought you were when you preached your first 
sermon at the church here. Pshaw ! who was it ? Some 
fellow froniHoppleton — a lawyer collecting debts uj) in your 


312 


The New Timothy. 


neighborhood — heard you up there once or twice. He told 
me all about it when he came back. I do believe you have 
converted him — if only a lawyer could be converted ! I 
wish you would come down and give us a sermon occasion- 
ally.” 

“ How is your father’s family ?” asked the one addressed, 
after a long silence. 

“ As usual. More quiet, now Anna is married. Did you 
ever hear of such a match ? Bug has the measles, or some- 
thing of the sort, now and then. And you are boarding at 
old General Likens’s still? There’s one thing about that 
old pair, not generally known either : they are rich — rich 
as cream. My father is their banker, you know. I do 
w^onder who in the mischief they will leave it to.” 

It was said with the same careless manner as all the 
rest. If the young preacher had not been so occupied 
with thinking of something else he might have noticed a 
look of keen inquiry in the eyes of his friend as he spoke. 

“Mr. Ramsey is coming up to take tea and spend the 
evening at my uncle’s to-night, and I have to leave for 
home early in the morning,” said Mr. Wall, rising to leave. 
“ And there is one thing it is but fair and honorable for me 
to tell you, Burleson. You once told me I was engaged to 
be married to Miss Louisiana Mills. Well, if I ever was, 
now I am not. If there ever was any thing of the kind it 
is all over now.” 

The same low, dull pain again — fainter now. It was 
singular. 

“ Blooming Miss Loo ! Discarded you, eh ? Couldn’t 
afford to marry a preacher. Exactly. Just what I expect- 
ed. One thing, however; she had no more to do with it 
than our Bug. Don’t be angry. Wall ; but I declare that 
girl always reminds me of one of those fair Circassian 
slaves one reads about, for sale in the market at Constants 


Edwaed Burleson’s Suggestion. 


813 


iiople. Her Pa and Ma are not one’s idea of a Circassian 
chief and his wife exactly, and they don’t actually olfer 
Miss Loo for sale. But I tell you what it is — the man that 
brings the most money gets her ! What a rascally world 
it is ! I forgot to say it,” said Burleson, after smoking a 
while. “ I am sorry for it. Accept my unfeigned condo- 
lences.” 

“ And there is another thing I wished to say — ” 

“ By Jove, look here. Wall !” interrupted Burleson, with 
unwonted energy. “ If you really want to marry Miss Loo 
just say so. It will be the easiest thing in the world to 
run off with her. A splendid idea ! I’ll get the buggy 
and the license and a justice of the peace ready. Tell you 
what I’ll do — I’ll pay the fine for you myself, if she’s under 
age. It’s only five hundred dollars or so. You needn’t 
go to the house. I’ll get my mother to invite her to our 
house to tea any evening you say so. She’ll do any thing 
I ask her. I know Miss Loo well; you can persuade her 
into it. If you have got a particle of spirit it’s a splendid 
idea.” 

The young lawyer had thrown away his cigar and was 
on his feet. He looked handsome as Apollo, in his enthu- 
siasm. 

“ Thank you — thank you, Burleson,” said Mr. Wall, re- 
suming his seat and smiling at his companion’s ardor. 
“ But I would rather not.” 

“But what can be your objection? Ministers often 
do such things. People only shake their heads at first, 
and think that much the more of them afterwards.” 

“I have two objections,” said the young minister, com- 
posedly. “ In the first place, I would not steal Colonel 
Mill’s dog, and I certainly would not steal his daughter ; 
wouldn’t steal any of his possessions, much less the one 
dearest to him of all. Hold on a moment, and hear me 


314 


The New Timothy. 


out ! I wouldn’t steal Miss Loo even if I loved her. But, 
in the second place, I doiiDt love her. I may have done so 
in a fashion once, but I do not love her now at all.” 

The same low, sullen pain far down among the roots of 
the heart. 

“ Don’t tell me !” broke in Burleson, impatiently. “You 
are smarting now under your treatment from her father 
and mother — sordid old couple ! Your love will all come 
back — ” 

“No, it will not,” said the other, rising quietly from his 
chair, hat in hand. 

“ And why not ?” 

“ Simply because I love another lady. And love her 
infinitely more than I ever loved Miss Mills.” 

“ You don’t mean — ” An oath, the first the young min- 
ister had ever heard from his friend, filled out the sentence. 
Sonjething suddenly coarse in his whole bearing. 

“ This is my special object in calling here this after- 
noon,” said Mr. Wall, after a painful pause. “ It is due to 
our old friendship. Honor requires I should give you fair 
warning. I do love Miss J ohn, but I have never breathed 
such a thing to her. I tell you frankly I intend to do it. 
But I will be fair with you. I will give you one full week 
to visit and wdn her if you can. If she loves you, very 
Avell, she will accept you. If she does not love you, she 
will tell you so plainly and finally. A 'week ? You may 
have, for what I know, years of opportunity. We are both 
poor, very poor, perfectly poor. No telling when we can 
get married, even if she is willing to risk it ever. And 
you are rich. One thing I know — wdiatever she does will 
be right. However you or I may like it, it will be right. 
And you know it as well as I.” 

It was dark already. The shades of night grew darker 


Edward Burleson Adrift. 


315 


and darker; but the young lawyer kept his seat for hours, 
lighting no candle, forgetting exactly how he had parted 
from his visitor. All the future lay before him in the dark- 
ness more vividly than if he actually beheld it, as from an 
eminence, under the clear shining of the sun. Two paths 
reached away before him in life. The one narrow, rugged, 
ascending steeps, climbing noble heights. And with this 
path is associated sudden and utter change from what he 
now is. But he had never dreamed of ascending thus 
save as another Dante guided of Beatrice, and only in the 
last year lias that Beatrice crossed his path. 

“ And Heaven has carefully arranged it,” he reasons to 
himself, sitting in the darkness hours after, and with bitter- 
ness, “ that this friend of mine is to rob me, it is very plain, 
of this last chance of — Paradise ! She would have made a 
man of me. That is, perhaps so — at least if any body 
could. Very good ! At least mine is the easiest road ; and 
God decides it so. What is the use, anyhow ? It is all 
fanaticism, I dare say — any thing else. This forty or sixty 
years or so of eating and drinking and sleeping is all one 
knows of one’s existence. If there is any life after this, let 
it explain itself, arrange itself, when it arrives. Drift ! 
Yes, drift until it comes, if ever it does come !” 

But who can explain why it is that, as the one love sinks, 
like the sun, under the horizon. Miss Louisiana Mills should 
rise, like the full moon, above the same ? Rebound ? Re- 
action ? 

“ How exactly she will suit me !” this Turkish sultan 
reasons after a while. “ Blooming Miss Loo ! Her father 
is rich, mine is rich — the very ordinance of Heaven itself ! 
N^othing in the world to do but to marry Miss Loo and — 
drift !” Only there is no dull and sullen pain in this case 
— pain as of knife with sharp and poisoned edge rather. 

“ It is all one in the end — who cares ?” the young law- 


316 


The New Timothy. 


yer sums up in tlie end. “ The Greeks had two distinct 
Cupids, gods of love, Eros, whatever they called it ; very 
different and distinct sorts of love indeed. If I am not to 
have the higher I can take the lower. It’s all a farce, any- 
way. If I only had the energy I’d found a new philosophy, 
— religion. This : All the world’s a stage — why, that is 
what Shakspeare says — and all the men and women mere- 
ly players ; they have their exits and their entrances. And 
life is one perpetual farce or tragedy, being continually 
acted on the boards of the world for the amusement of the 
gods. 

‘ For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurl’d 
Far below them in the valleys. ’ 

Anna and Mr. Merkes, for instance ! Dare say Loo and I 
will get along as well as that remarkable pair. ” 


The New Mks. Mekkes. 


317 


Chaptee XXIX. 

The supremest of Woman^s Rights, 

II TR. MERKES and Anna Burleson ! 

For weeks after their marriage the eyes of Hopple- 
ton are upon the little house in the suburbs with the green 
blinds, in which dwell Mr. and Mrs. Merkes and the chil- 
dren. The ears of Hoppleton are intensely strained in that 
direction. Hoppleton awaits an explosion. 

“ When a man’s wife, now, has money, a man can stand 
it,” says, at last, poor Issells to his wretched spouse ; “but 
when she hasn’t a cent, and is sickly besides, the best thing 
he can do is to cut his throat !” And he snaps his shears 
savagely together and blasphemes. 

The first Sunday after the wedding all Hoppleton at- 
tends the church of Mr. Wall senior to see the couple. 
Quite a sensation as Mr. Merkes precedes his bride down 
the aisle — tall, thin, dry — perfectly aware of the wrong 
done him by the eyes of all there ; somewhat grim for a 
bridegroom, differing only by reason of a new suit of 
clothes. Any body can see, however, that it is his wife 
who has brushed his hair. And Mrs. Merkes is very 
much the same — only with a coming and going of little 
blushes over her face, a dignity as of defiance, and little 
bits of nervousness over her ifianner, really charming to 
see ; younger, too, a good deal, she seems to be. She has 
only one thought — a liushand — my husband ! And the 
thought clothes him to her eyes, as she sits beside him, 
as with all excellence, 


318 


The New Timothy. 


“ But how about the children ?” asks Hoppleton. 

“ Long-legged boys to make pants for. Oh, won’t she 
be sick of her bargain !” says Issells. ‘‘ Spank the younger 
ones like thunder as soon as she dare — see if she don’t !” 

At school during the week, at Sunday-school, going along 
the streets — for they visit the stores to buy this little thing 
and that now for themselves — the children are closely in- 
spected. They are evidently brightened up in some way. 

The fact is, to have a house of her own to attend to is 
delightful to Mrs. Merkes. All her father’s energy, long 
suppressed and souring upon itself for lack of object, now 
develops itself wonderfully. The boys would be really 
manly fellows if they were dressed up a little, encouraged 
to hold up their heads. At least I’ll see, says Mrs. Merkes 
to herself ; and she goes to work on them with ardor. Her 
success astonishes herself. 

* The poor little thing !” says Mrs. Merkes to herself of 
Mary ; I wonder how she icould look if she was fitted up 
nicely. And she gradually begins to make a sack or so, 
then a full suit for Mary, then a new-fashioned fancy apron 
she sees a picture of in the last Magazine. There is an un- 
develoj^ed milliner in the late Miss Anna Burleson. She 
takes a pleasure in planning and cutting out and fitting 
for all the children she never dreamed of before. It is not 
the kind of work she has now to do, though ; it is simply 
that it is a work devolved on her to be done. She has a 
position now to fill, a something to do ; all her slumbering 
energies engage with real delight in what lies before them. 

And .so she grows to love the children. And the chil- 
dren — very shy at first, poor little partridges ! — grow to 
love her. She gradually becomes aware of the fact that 
these are the only children that will claim her care — be- 
comes contented with them as such, people compliment 
her so upon them — even proud of them. No wonder; they 


The Me ekes Family. 


319 


all bloom under her hand like flowers closed hitherto to 
the sun. She is radiant with the success of hen efibrts. 
And by-and-by she sinks naturally and comfortably into 
the place and feeling of the energetic mother of a large 
family. Is it because her unnatural state of mind has 
passed away that the seed received into her heart in girl- 
hood — the seed of piety — now puts forth ? In becoming 
a wife to Mr. Merkes, and then, slowly, a mother to his 
children, she becomes a Christian too. With the sallowness 
from the face flies the bitterness from the heart. Nature 
has resumed its sweet sway in her. Mrs. Merkes is a 
thousand times lovelier and happier than Anna Burleson. 
Every body acknowledges that. 

And it is this reconciles her father and mother to the 
matter, slowly but surely. Mr. Merkes, continuing his 
school, never bothers them — he is too proud for that. 
They grow to esteem, even like him, though never as much 
as Anna would have them, of course. 

It is all very well ; but at last it doesn’t agree with Mr. 
Merkes. It would be delightful to write him down as 
henceforth enjoying himself a little. It would seem more 
natural too ; but then it would not be the truth. For 
many, many years he has been kept going as by stress of 
circumstances. Now that the stress is suddenly off of 
him, he relaxes somehow. He is as a ship which drives 
before the gale, kept afloat by the very force of the wind 
from behind, by the very heave of the sea from, beneath. 
The instant the wind lulls and the sea ceases, down 
goes the ship to the bottom ! 

Not twelve months had Mr. Merkes been married be- 
fore he had one of his old attacks. Something seriously the 
matter this time with his digestion ; dyspepsia in good 
earnest now ; fare being so much better, perhaps. Once 
he would have risen against the attack, resented it, resist- 


320 


The ' N ^ E^y Timothy. 


ed it, contradicted it, defied it, driven it back. But pros- 
perity had debilitated him ; he yielded from the first. 
But he had whole hours of the common-sense and calm of 
heaven even before he entered its gateway. 

“ What a lunatic I have been, Anna !” he said to his 
weeping wife. “ All my life — ever since I became a Chris- 
tian at least — I have had an eternal heaven awaiting me, 
only a few years off at farthest ; a reconciled and Almighty 
Father around me all the time, regarding me with infinite 
love and care ; and yet I have all the way been torment- 
ing and worrying myself about trifles. What a fool ! 
Worse than that — what a sinner I have been in this !” 

“We will be happy together hereafter,” sobbed his 
wife. 

“ Ha ! I don’t know about that ! What about the oth- 
er Mrs. Merkes already there?” 

The thought sprang up instantly in his mind. All the 
old thistle-seed hadn’t been purged from the soil yet. But 
the idea tormented him only a moment ; the next he actu- 
ally laughed aloud at his own folly, while his wife suspend- 
ed her tears in wonder. 

“What an amazing fool I have been !” continued the dying 
man. “ All my life scourging myself like an old ascetic ; 
putting pebbles in my own shoes ; persisting in sleeping 
upon spikes ; crying, and cutting myself with every stone 
in reach among the tombs. And this when I might have 
followed Jesus instead — might have lived instead a sweet, 
simple, natural life of childlike faith. If there is any pal- 
liation of my sin, it is that I permitted my troubles to 
craze me almost.” 

And so Mr. Merkes falls into a gentle sleep, and his wife 
sits beside him and smooths with her soft touch the thin 
gray hair which has known so many cross-winds, and holds 
in her own the hand which has striven so many years with 


Anne Burleson Merkes. 


321 


the bramble and the brier. He has suddenly become young- 
er in the face by t vventy years. He murmurs, too, in his sleep, 
of “ Lucy, Lucy.” Mrs. Merkes knows well who he means, 
and that he has gone back to days long before he ever 
heard of her; but she swallows it down, blames herself for 
even the passing pang it gives her. And he wakes again 
to thank and kiss her for all her love and care, and so 
passes quietly into the world of eternal peace. 

“And now what about the children?” asks Hoppleton 
as it comes back from the burying. 

It has never occurred as a question to the widow. By 
this time George, Samuel, Alexander, have become to her 
really and truly “ my boys.” She has not cut out, and 
fitted, and played the mother to them so many months for 
nothing. Docile enough, poor things ! previous discipline 
of their young lives had made them all that only too 
much. More spirit in them as well as docility these last 
few months. They are boys to be proud of She knows, 
and they know,' it is the doing of her hand, and she has not 
the least inclination to stop in her work. As to Mary, she 
is really her girl. “ My girl,” she loves to call her. None 
sweeter in Hoppleton. Hoppleton has told her so often 
enough, with many a “Who v^ould have thought, Mrs. 
Merkes, you ever could have done so well !” Mary is de- 
voted to her ; for love inevitably creates love. The death 
of any one of the children could not have afflicted their 
own mother more. In fact, she grows to forget that she 
is not their mother — the children have almost forgotten 
any other themselves. Not for half an instant does Mrs. 
Merkes permit Bug to put on any airs in regard to them. 
To care for her children is now her only business in life. 
She accepts it as matter of course. She carries it out 
with energy and success. 


21 


322 


The New Timothy. 


“ It’s my opinion her marrying that man was the most 
sensible thing Nan ever did in her life,” says practical Mr. 
Burleson one day to his stately wife. 

“Do you really think so?” asks his wife. “You didn’t 
at first, Mr. Burleson. I had no patience with her myself, 
as I told you and told her a thousand times, for wanting a 
husband. A woman at her age, too ! It was indelicate ; 
it was positively disgusting in her ! We were dilfei’ently 
constituted, I am sure. I never would have gone on as 
Anna did ; I would have died first ! But it is all done 
now. Poor thing ! However, I am not sorry Mr. Merkes 
is dead.” ^ 

“ ‘ I will therefore that the younger women marry,’ ” 
Mr. Burleson reads from the Bible which lies on the table 
before him, “ ‘ bear children, guide the house, give none 
occasion to the adversary to speak reproachfully.’ ” 

“ Oh pshaw, nonsense !” says Mrs. Burleson. “ And I 
am satisfied Anna never would have married him if it 
hadn’t been for that terrible matter about little Lucy. 
And about that I’ve never been perfectly satisfied yet.” 


Dawning. 


323 


Chapter XXX. 

Thine Ears shall hear a Word behind thee, saying, This is the TFay.” 

W HEN the young minister mounted his horse next 
morning, after an early breakfast, at his uncle’s 
gate, he thought, as he rode off, that he had never seen so 
lovely a morning in all his life. An unusual light rested, 
to him, on the face of the world ; there was a luxury in 
existence itself. Perhaps it was because he had risen so 
early ; for the whole after-day is as in Eden to the man 
that rises with Adam and Eve before six. Perhaps it was 
because he had slept so soundly the night before. When 
he first lay down he began to think. He had arrested him- 
self in the very outset of this, however. “ You know per- 
fectly well,” he said to himself, “ that if you begin to think 
you will continue to do so all night, rise in the morning 
worsted by it, and arrive at no result Avhatever by all your 
thinking.” So, with grim determination, he had collared 
and carried himself to sleep forthwith. 

Perhaps he owed something of the brightness of the 
morning, as he rode, to the quiet and pleasant conclusion 
of his mistake in regard to Miss Louisiana. The pain, and 
wondering how, and worriment that mistake had been to 
him ! And all of it over now ; and so naturally and pleas- 
antly over, too ! “Yes,” he repeated to himself, “hence- 
forth I will try day by day to do simply the duty the day 
actually brings with it, and let the morrow take care for 
the things of itself” One might as well be striking with 
hatchet and hammer at a star in the sky, attempting to 


324 


The New Timothy. 


shape and tinker it, as to sweat and toil so in regard to the 
future. The star is not more completely beyond one’s pres- 
ent reach than is the future, save as it is influenced by the 
manly doing to-day of to-day’s duty. And it is wonderful 
how little of the low, dull pain of yesterday remains under 
the clear shining of the morning’s sun. 

As he rides he thinks of his old love ; he sees her over 
again in every light in which he ever saw her before ; he 
recognizes and does full justice to all that is beautiful in 
her; admires her as he would have done an exquisite wax- 
work in a glass-case and across a railing. 

Perhaps his buoyancy of feeling this morning is the rapid 
growth, too, during the last few hours, of a hope sown long 
ago in his soul. He assumes, he revels in it as a certainty, 
he fairly exults as in absolute confidence. Of Burleson he 
has no fear. He knows, and Burleson knows, that in some 
way the young minister, brimful of defect though he be, 
has passed the young lawyer in the journey of life — has 
reached a higher level. The young lawyer knoAvs it, with 
a sense of defiant indifference. The young minister uncon- 
sciously acknowledges it to himself, but only with humility 
and sense of Avondering gratitude to the PoAver which has 
done it in him. 

But he breaks suddenly away from all such vague medi- 
tations. He has a feeling of fresh purpose, new resolve, in 
his bosom this morning. He Avill enter on a system of reg- 
ular pastoral visiting among his charge — will explore his 
field to its utmost limits, lea\^e not a cabin unvisited, not 
an individual unapproached. And the children, too ; he 
must establish a Sabbath- school before service every morn- 
ing. As to the youth, can he not manage to collect them 
at some point one night in the week for a Bible-class? 
And there are the negroes. He must become a regular 
missionary among them ; preach on one of the farms in his 


The Day’s Wokk Proposed. 


325 


charge every night in the week till he has gone the whole 
rounds. It is an admirable idea ! He will lay it before 
the masters and mistresses next Sunday morning after ser- 
mon. No; he will preach a sermon on the subject, and 
then present his plan. A sermon ? By-the-by, he ought 
to be preaching a regular series of elaborate sermons to his 
people. What shall the course be ? The doctrines in their 
order? The prophecies ? A good idea; he will enter upon 
it immediately ! There are the Meggar boys, too, so won- 
derfully changed for the better since the funeral; he will 
spend a day or so with them this next week. Even Zed and 
Toad are possibilities with God! And how will it do, 
he asks himself, after a while, to write a book in the inter- 
vals of occupation? Not that he has any idea, just at this 
moment, what the book is to be about ; all that he desires 
is to be, like Mr. Long, hard at work all the time. He has 
a new sense of exuberant power within him this morning 
— something has smitten open in him a new fountain of 
purpose. “ God hath not given us the spirit of fear, but of 
power and of love and of a sound mind.” What a text for 
a sermon ! He will write it down while it occurs to him ; 
and he draws his memorandum-book out of his breast- 
pocket, and with it an unopened letter. 

“ Well, I declare !” he says to himself ; “ the letter I 
took out of the Hoppleton office yesterday, just before I 
stepped into Burleson’s office ! Never thought of it once 
since !” And so he checks Mike into a walk ; opens and 
reads it. It is dated from the city he had once visited. 
Why, who ? Why, what ? He reads the letter hurriedly 
over once, thrusts it, all crumpled, back into his pocket, 
gives a hurrah, after glancing around to see, being a cler- 
gyman, that no one is in hearing, presses his heels against 
his horse’s flanks, and goes off into what Mr. Long would 
have styled a “ lope ” for a mile or two. He is only en- 


326 


The New Timothy. 


deavoring to keep up with the beating of his heart. But 
he reins Mike up at last, ashamed of himself. “ If I am 
so much carried away by a joy,” he reasons with himself, 
“ I would be equally by a sorrow.” So he reads the letter 
gravely over again, from the “ Rev. and Dear Sir ” to the 
“ Yours most respectfully ” — in a very large hand too — 
“ Alexander Jones.” 

Mr. Langdon’s white-headed, ruddy-faced clerk ! And 
it is all about Mr. Langdon’s clerk’s church enterprise 
there in the city. Of course ! Mr. Wall is back again in 
the upper room of the engine-house, as he was that Sabbath 
morning months ago. He remembers how he got there 
that morning with Mr. Jones first of all. N'ot first of all ; 
he remembers there was quite a group of persons waiting 
at the door for Mr. Jones with the key when they arrived. 
He recollects how rapidly the room filled with young men 
and young ladies, with a certain fresh, happy energy in 
their faces. These were the Sabbath-school teachers ; and 
how the room swarmed with their pupils ! A few of them 
evidently old hands at Sunday-school, from their sitting so 
near the desk, and looking so continually around on the 
others with a glad expression in their eyes, as of nutting 
or grape-gathering ; and the other children — the extra com- 
posure of some proving as conclusively as the extra timidity 
of the others how entirely unused they were to the inside 
of such an institution — the very incomplete toilet of many 
confirming the same. And the cheerful alacrity of the 
teachers, and the warm friendship so evidently existing 
among them in their common work; good Mr. Jones, 
with his white hair and ruddy face all aglow, rubbing his 
hands as he contemplated the scene ; a smile on his face 
as he, being superintendent, is consulted by a teacher, or a 
lingering of his hand about the shoulder and head of some 
new scholar just introduced. Mr. Wall remembers, too, 


The Day’s Work Disposed. 


327 


the children peeping in at the door of the room, whom no 
inducements could draw fairly in ; and how, at last, Mr. 
Jones leaves the room with another friend near his own 
weight, goes down the other staircase, gets beyond and be- 
hind the crowd of street children, and then, abreast with 
his friend, walks slowly and resolutely up the stairway 
again with kindly word and motion, bearing the entire 
crowd before them and fairly into the room — not a lamb 
left unfolded. 

And the appearance of the congregation as it assembled 
an hour or two later for worship — he remembers it per- 
fectly. He can easily tell the leaders of the enterprise by 
their sitting so near the desk, and by their furtive glancing 
around to see what kind of attendance it was to be this 
morning ; and by their aspect of entire satisfaction, too, 
when the room was actually crowded, even crammed. It 
was owing to Mr. Jones — that. Outside the door, with 
his beaming face and ready hand to show all comers in. 
Long after he knew certainly there was no seat to be had, 
he still waved the timid loiterers on the landing without 
to come in, come in ! 

And the singing too ! All seemed to sing the sweet- 
ness and meaning of every syllable. And the prayers ! 
He had never prayed with such quiet fervor before ; the 
warm-hearted Christians were so near to him all around 
the little desk he could almost touch them with his ex- 
tended hand, and he had such a certainty their hearts 
were beating with his in every sentiment and word. His 
text — he took it with such a sense of pleasure before him ; 
told them all its meaning in such a quiet, common-sense, 
social manner. It was not like being high up in the grand 
pulpit of the other church — the congregation large and out 
of arm’s-length before him. It was only as in a parlor full 
of personal friends. 


328 


The New Timothy. 


The enterprise has flourished beyond all their expec- 
tation. Sabbath - school overflowing ; prayer - meeting 
thronged; public services crowded. Would Mr. Wall 
cast in his lot with them as their pastor? And they 
had bought a suitable lot, too, for a church ; and they had 
almost raised the money to build it. And what the gen- 
tlemen had done, and what the ladies had done, what the 
wonderful children were doing — it was a very long let- 
ter. It was not in the least an official document, so far 
as wording was concerned. Mr. Jones had written it with 
more pleasure than if it had been a letter to a lady he ex- 
pected to marry — only there was no such lady in his 
case now — 8he had died before Mr. J ones’s hair had whit- 
ened. 

Accept it ? “ It is our. unanimous wish — our very ar- 
dent desire. God has caused us all to set our hearts on 
you to lead us in carrying out our noble enterprise,” said 
Mr. Jones in his letter, and a page more to the same effect. 
“ All of us engaged in the enterprise are young like your- 
self,” wrote white-haired Mr. Jones, “ and we have a new 
field, a rapidly growing part of the city;” and Mr. Jones 
indulged in statistics in proof, but which were entirely 
unnecessar}^ 

Accept the invitation ? The tears rose to the young 
minister’s eyes as he thanked God with all his soul for the 
oj)portunity of accepting ! Alas for the Likens neighbor- 
hood ! It dwindled into nothing before the great city 
with its wharves and warehouses, and thronging crowds 
and roaring energy. Work in the service of his Master — 
ample unbounded w^ork ! He exulted in the opportunity. 
Mr. Jones had said something about the salary — about 
its prospective increase. The young minister had skipped 
over both as altogether irrelevant while he read. 

Accept it ? Yes, most gladly ! 


An Acceptance. 


329 


And from the first opening of the letter one thought 
ran along with all his thoughts — a golden thread from end 
to end of the web — an essential part and portion of it all 
— John ! 

When Mr. Wallas last finds himself, and to his astonish- 
ment, at Mrs. General Likens’s gate, he alights with a re- 
solve to keep perfectly silent and quiet on this last subject 
for one whole week. It is all a form, he well knows. 
And Burleson knew it too from the instant his friend pro- 
posed it. “I am pledged to it,” reasoned Mr. Wall to 
himself, as he tied his horse ; “ and I am glad of it. I am 
too emotional altogether. It will be an admirable prac- 
tice for me in calmness .and silence. Ah, yes, that is the 
idea ! to write an elaborate and intensely logical discourse 
or two upon the best texts I can find ; let ofiT all excess in 
that way. Besides, I have yet to pray for Divine direc- 
tion in the matter.” The thought came rather late. 

• “ And my uncle ?” 

It is strange that he had not glanced once over his 
shoulder during the day to see if Burleson was not travel- 
ling the same road. He had not thought to do it once. 
And yet why should he ? When a thing is an inevitable 
thing, a matter-of-course thing — manifestly, undeniably so 
— people concerned about it unanimously admit it at last, 
whether they wish to do so or not. 


330 


The New Timothy. 


Chapter XXXI. 

An Announcement and a Reminiscence, 

^ ^ "Vr oil were out very late last night again, Edward,” 
his mother had remarked to young Burleson at 
breakfast one morning before the week of truce had ex- 
pired. “Where could you have been? Not at Colonel 
Mills’s ?” 

“ Yes, Madam, at Colonel Mills’s,” replied her son, indif- 
ferently. 

“ Take care, Edward. People will say next you are ad- 
dressing her,” said his mother. 

“ Let them say it. Madam. So I am,” is the cool reply. 
“ My colfee, if you please.” 

“ Why, Edward !” exclaims Mrs. Burleson, with coffee- 
pot held in suspense. “ You don’t really mean to say — ” 

“ There is no use of any mystery about it. It isn’t 
worth it,” said the son, in a leisurely way. “ Miss Loo 
and myself are engaged to be married. It happened 
two nights ago.” 

“ Happened ?” 

“Yes, Madam, happened; and, by-the-by, I wish you 
would tell my father about it. I hate to do so myself.” 
Practical Mr. Burleson had breakfasted and gone to his 
bank an hour before. 

Yes, happened is precisely the word. On the night in 
question, while lounging in Colonel Mills’s parlor, the 
young lawyer, with a kind of gentlemanly nonchalance, 
had assumed that he and Miss Loo were to be married. 


Two Bubbles. 


‘331 


It came up quite incidentally in the course of an exceed- 
ingly desultory conversation. 

“ Law me, Mr. Burleson !” Miss Louisiana had exclaim- 
ed, with unbounded merriment ; and afterwards, “ Oh 
lawsy, the idea !” What beautiful lips and teeth ! 

When Hoppleton knew that the young lawyer and Miss 
Loo were actually engaged — which it did several weeks 
before it was really so — Hoppleton had said, “ Oh, of course ; 
every body knew that long ago.” Yes, it was inevitable ; 
the matter-of course result of their living together in the 
same village ; quite in the natural order of events. There 
had been no special care or effort towards the result on 
either side. They had simply drifted together on the cur- 
rent of life — the two bubbles. It was the young lawyer’s 
own illustration. 

And do let us have it all over, if you please, as soon as 
possible,” he had remarked, in a somewhat wearied manner 
as he parted from Miss Loo last night. 

Just six months ago to-night ! Edward Burleson said to 
himself, the same evening, as he took a seat in his office com- 
ing back from his visit at Colonel Mills’s. Just six months 
ago ! prizing off the lid of a fresh box of cigars as he re- 
peated the words. “ Just six months ago,” he added aloud, 
“ since that night here with me ! Hang my profession ! 
I said that night, I consider myself, so does Anna and my 
mother and you too, a first-class man ! I am serious, a 
first-class man in ability and education ! Ambitious, too, 
as Lucifer. And, hang my profession ! Do you think I am 
willing to drudge in a secondary position? What for? 
Money ? I’ve got plenty of that already. Now — ” 

“ Secondary ? What do you mean ?” his companion 
that night of half a year before had replied — if the reader 
will allow us to recall the conversation also. 

“ My dear fellow, is it all a fiction f I mean that every 


332 


The New Timothy. 


speaker except the preacher has reference to the body not 
the soul — time, not eternity — in his efforts. I do believe 
you read, and think, and speak so much about these higher 
matters that you do not yourself fully realize the tremen- 
dous difference between the one set of things and the other. 
The tremendous difference, man !” and Burleson arose from 
his seat with strange excitement, his eyes sparkling with 
his thought. 

“ You are right — over-familiarity with the awful reality 
of what we preach does dull our sense to its actuality. 
But human nature could not bear the strain of a full and 
steady conception of the fact of the soul, and eternity, and 
God — an eternal hell or heaven impending over each of 
us !” said Wall, after a pause, trying to grasp the facts, as 
he mentioned them. “No,” he continued, after a long si- 
lence, “ too full and fixed a conception of these things 
would overwhelm one. Even the heathen with their pal- 
try ideas of the Deity — you remember the story — how the 
nymph was consumed to ashes when the god, at her re- 
quest, visited her in all his glory as a god.” 

“ Well, what I was saying is this,” continued Burleson, 
leaning against the mantel ; “ in contrast with the occasion- 
al opportunities other men have of influencing men, remem- 
ber that Sunday comes back once a week as steadily as the 
earth rolls. Every Sunday, if not all the people, yet just 
the moral and intelligent class, which is the soul and sub- 
stance of the land, turn from every thing else, go to church 
and yield themselves up there to ’whatever the minister 
pleases to do with them, uninterrupted, uncontradicted or 
argued against, with all the authority of an ambassador 
from God Almighty, too, to address, sway, mould, move, 
melt, do any thing he pleases with them. What a chance ! 
Beg your pardon. Wall — didn’t mean it. And then a man is 
thoroughly trained, too, for this one purpose, has full time 


Training for the Arena. 


333 


from every thing else during the Aveek to prepare himself 
for Sunday. Of course I would rather be a preacher, if I 
only had any purpose in life at all, than any thing else.” 

“ You forget the poverty, the trials — ” 

“No I don’t,” interrupted Burleson. “Why, it’s the 
dieting and rubbing of the race-horse that makes him 
thin as a flash that he may be as SAvift too. It’s the starv- 
ing doAvn, and cufling, and painful training of the pugilist, 
till every bone shows and every muscle stands out tense 
and strong as Avhipcord, ready for the ring. I Avouldn’t 
object to it for myself. It would etherealize, supernatural- 
ize me for the work !” 

“ In Avhich your one grand end Avould be your own glory. 
The more you do Avith your audiences so much the grand- 
er for you ! No, sir, your idea of the jirofession is a hu- 
man one, purely, and a natural one. I am ashamed 
to say it is exactly my idea, too, only, unlike you, I 
knoAV it is all utterly false and wrong — hnow it perfect- 
ly Avell. No, sir, a true minister of the Gospel is a sin- 
ner Avhom God has regenerated and placed in the min- 
istry for his glory and the benefit of men, not for the min- 
ister’s OAvn interest in any except an incidental way. He 
is not an orator to thunder aAvay on splendid themes, only 
a messenger, an errand-bearer from God. All he has to 
convey to men is his message, his errand ; nothing more, 
nothing less. His errand is a distasteful one to men, too. 
It is such a message that any hearing he gets for it, any 
the least attention paid by men to it — much more, any the 
least influence it has on men, is accomplished, not by the 
minister at all, only by the Holy Spirit. The man is only 
an instrument, say a trumpet, through which the Divine 
breath is made audible to men. As to the starvation train- 
ing you speak of, it is the providence of God to fit minis- 
ters better for the pulpit.” 


334 


The New Timothy. 


“ I dare say very little of a heavenly Father most min- 
isters recognize in it ! Look at that Mr. Merkes out here ; 
waspish, nigh crazed his training has made him. Merkes 
blasphemes as bitterly as poor little Issells, the wicked tail- 
or, only in a different way !” is Burleson’s reply. “ I know 
the theory every preacher has of his office, but it makes me 
angry only to see how they evidently don’t believe in their 
own theory of it themselves — I mean practically. Suppose 
from long and painful experience they have lost all reliance 
in men, even in church members, as to their support, why 
don’t they have a living reliance in the God who sends 
them ? I tell you, Wall, there is altogether too much doubt 
and despondency about men who profess to bear glad tid- 
ings of great joy to all people. Of all men in the world, 
such a man should be a Christian gentleman, looking 
down upon no man, looking up to no man either — frank 
and fearless, in the genial enjoyment himself of the mes- 
sage he bears. Your own uncle. Wall — why are there so 
few like him?” 

“ Thank you, Burleson, but you mustn’t forget that men 
are of different temperament. Besides, religion no more 
makes perfect ministers than it makes perfect laymen.” 

“ Why is it ?” interrupted Burleson, who seemed full of 
the subject. “ I do wonder. Wall, if Christianity can be 
all really, really true. No, true is not the word — really so ! 
Do you really think there actually is the hell of Scripture, 
the heaven of Scripture, after death — really, now, as there 
is a London, a California ? Actual places ! pshaw, I can 
not express my idea.” 

“ Yes, Burleson,” said his companion, looking up at his 
friend with beaming eyes, his heart in his tones. “ And 
that magnificent person, God Almighty, is a real individual, 
as real as you and I ; and God the Holy Ghost, too, is a 
living agent, not a mere influence, a person who does act 


I Believe, Etc. 


335 


on a man, make his home in a man ; and there really was, 
really is, a man, a living, breathing man, with hands and 
feet, eyes and lips and heart, a man named Jesus Christ, 
who actually was, actually is, God in flesh. His death for 
us, his ascension to heaven, his being really and truly alive 
this instant in heaven and on earth, all is really so ! I do 
believe it with all my soul !” continued Wall, slowly, feel- 
ingly, with tears in his eyes and his soul in his voice. “ The 
facts, Burleson, are glorious, are they not ? Is it not 
a magnificent business, we being commissioned of God to 
tell such facts to men ?” 

“Yes, yes, I see it all, as clearly, perhaps, as you. You 
wouldn’t believe it, but there is nothing I think about 
more. It is so sublime, the whole of it. But I look on it 
ail with my intellect, not a throb of the heart. I sit here 
late these winter evenings by myself — somehow the whole 
matter rolls before me like a grand panorama, every thing 
as vivid and brilliant, and I a mere spectator. I dare say 
no devil, no lost spirit, believes it much more clearly than 
I, only while I have as little personal interest in it as these, 
I haven’t any of their remorse or misery. No spectator of 
Lear or Hamlet could be more interested in the tragedy 
playing on the stage before him than I am in this; nor 
feel less personal concern, I mean concern about his own 
personal connection, relative to the tragedy, than I do in 
the tremendous drama of Christianity now being played 
upon the boards of the universe. It is a singular thing,” 
continued Burleson as if to himself, “ but in regard to re- 
ligion I am perfectly alive here,” placing his hand on his 
brow. “ The most devoted Christian can not possibly have 
clearer conceptions than I have. I have these as distinct 
as human nature can endure. I often have to force my 
mind from the hell, the heaven, the crucified God of the 
Bible, for fear of consequences. Yet all the time during 


336 


The New Timothy. 


my fullest, clearest views I am stone dead here and he 
laid his hand on his bosom with the calmness of one statinor 

O 

a singular scientific fact. 

“ Will you do me a favor, Burleson ?” asked his compan- 
ion eagerly, after a long silence. 

“ Certainly,” replied Burleson with surprise. “What is 
it?” 

“ It is that you will kneel down with me — we are all by 
ourselves — in your office here to-night, and, just as well as 
you can, accompany my words with your thoughts — heart 
if you can.” And without waiting for his companion to 
refuse, the imjietuous friend solemnly knelt beside the chair 
on which he had been seated. A half-smile rested upon 
the face of Burleson ; but he knelt at a chair near by, with- 
out hesitation. In low tones his friend prayed for him, ad- 
dressing God as if he held his mantle while he prayed. He 
laid the case of his friend in simplest earnestness of en- 
treaty before the Almighty. For one thing only he asked ; 
the descent of the Spirit of God, then, there, upon his 
friend ; the living, personal Agent. There was a passion, 
an eloquence of entreaty of one who saw the whole dis- 
ease, the one remedy. Tears streamed in silent, uninter- 
rupted flow as he prayed, and his companion knelt still, at- 
tentive to every syllable. But when they arose to their 
feet, Burleson returned his gaze with the same calm smile 
upon his face. “ Yes, it is very singular indeed,” he said, 
seating himself in a chair, crossing his legs and leaning 
back with his hands clasped together behind his head, 
“ very singular indeed. Thank you. Wall : no good — not 
the least. It is as interesting and as singular a case as I 
ever met with.” It was entirely as if he w^ere talking of 
some other person. “ I have my theory about it. The 
Holy Ghost, you know, produces all spiritual feeling in a 
man — all of it — every bit ! Now, He did once produce all 


Two Patpis, and Four Passengers. 337 

this feeling in me. I remember it distinctly ; but you know 
my history. He has withdrawn entirely from me, and for- 
ever — my opinion is. I often think about it. I declare it 
is one of the strongest proofs I know, that that doctrine, at 
least, of religion is true !” 

How it all comes back, as he sat there in the gathering 
darkness ! Six months ago ! 

As the successful lover sat smoking a final cigar over 
the matter in his office, before retiring to bed, the inter- 
view between himself and the young minister rose vividly 
before him. “ There is that man,” he said to himself, “ has 
entered on his life’s work with a will. How contented, 
happy, exultant he is in it ! Growing stronger and heart- 
ier and more efficient for every blow he strikes — even 
for every blow he receives. If I only could be satisfied 
now that the whole theory of Christianity is false — but to 
save my life I can’t ! Engaged wholly and directly in 
God’s work (I do wonder,^ by-the-by, whether there actual- 
ly is such a Person, such an Individual as — God !) is the 
way he reasons. Yes. Spending his time and energies in 
benefiting all men within his influence ; making them bet- 
ter and happier here ; accomplishing their rescue from 
eternal wickedness and misery hereafter ; effecting their 
entrance on an eternity of purity, and consequent bliss. 
Doing this, too, according to a God-appointed method of 
work — a method successful in the case of millions now in 
heaven, successful in his own experience in the business so 
far. What a magnificent occupation for a man ! Whd:t 
an infinite reward such a man’s business is to himself, even 
here in this world — and heaven afterwards! Happy? 
I don’t blame you ! A small salary? All sorts of hard- 
ships in it ? If I only could actually be such a man, in 
such a business !” And he gave force to his feelings by 
an oath aloud. 


22 


338 


The New Timothy. 


“ Yes; he and John to walk together through life !” he 
continued to himself. “ They in their path ; I and Loo — 
I mean Loo and I — in ours ! Is it absolutely impossible ? 
:Suppose I make an effort to teach Loo something above 
■ eating and dressing? In making a desperate effort of 
the kind for her I might save myself. Oh, hang it, no ! 
What a fool you are to dream such a thing ! Slie 
weighs fifty pounds too much for that. Getting to be her 
father and mother over again! Well, Loo, we will have 
;an easy time of it till we die, anyhow. When we reach 
the other world we’ll take our chances — that is all ! Dare 
say it’ll all be right !” 

“ But, Edward,” his mother remarks at that breakfast- 
table, “ there was John — I thought — ” anxiously too. 

“She was going to marry me?” asked her son. “Not 
exactly. She and Wall are to marry, I believe.” And 
the young lawyer swallowed, as he spoke, the contents of 
his cup — and a good deal more besides. The keen black 
eyes of the mother saw it all. 

“ What a pair of fools !” she says, indignantly. 

“ In what sense ?” asks her son. 

“ Both poor — not a cent in the world,” says his mother, 
who feels relieved, too, as somewhat avenged thereby. 

“I beg your pardon,” says her son, coolly. “ Old Gen- 
eral Likens and his wife have willed John all their proper- 
ty. No one else in the world to leave it to — because she 
was born under their roof — ^because they took a fancy to 
her — I hardly know why. I made out the will for them 
myself before the old General died. I do believe,” said 
the young lawyer, leaning back in his chair as the thought 
struck him, “they hoped, intended she should marry me^ 
and swell said property. Queer idea I I had a passing no- 
tion of it from their manner at the time I wrote the will. 
Singular notion ! And Wall. One would have supposed 


About a Will. 


339 


they would have wanted them to marry. But no. The 
old lady is violently opposed to it. Singular how people 
— good, pious people — value property as they grow old. 
Not for themselves — for their young people. So we go!” 

“ Your friend is a sharper individual than I had sup- 
posed,” began the mother, quite sarcastic, from love to her 
son. 

“You are altogether mistaken,” interrupted the son. 
“Wall is as perfectly ignorant of it as Bug out there in 
the yard. The heiress herself is as much so. No, Madam. 
Old people, like the General and his wife, hold on to every 
cent of their property to the last instant of their life, who- 
ever is to have it after that — never hint any thing to di- 
minish their full hold upon it. No ; they love each other — 
John and Wall — without a thought of the future — a pair 
of green goslings — and see how Providence provides for 
such goslings ! I declare, I do believe Heaven actually 
does care and contrive for just such people !” 

If such people could only have a fixed faith to that effect 
themselves ! Poor Mr. Merkes ! 


340 


The New Timothy. 


Chaptee XXXIL 

In which one of us enters into a Heaven of Rest^ and two others of us inU 
a Heaven of Work. 

A nd so the week of truce rolled away. One day of it 
the young minister devoted to answering Mr. Jones’s 
letter. No poem ever written with more hearty good- 
will. The same afternoon the text is selected. One which 
he has not specially observed before, and of the full mean- 
ing of which he is ignorant, is selected as requiring that 
much more thought. And, hard at it, with concordance 
and examination of parallel passages, he goes early next 
morning. It requires considerable effort. Hardly has he 
looked at the text than it is plain he must have Mr. Bob 
Long’s assistance therein ; so a night is spent by him at the 
cabin of that gentleman in untying an Hebraic knot of Gor- 
dian toughness, with one or two lesser ones in the Greek 
Testament by way of refreshment after labor. Mr. Long 
makes no allusions to Miss Araminta Allen. The topic is 
too portentous — but there is a solemnity in his tones, and 
a peculiar manner in handling his beloved books, as of one 
soon to enter upon other and awful duties. 

All the family are, meanwhile, alarmed for the mistress 
of the household. While the minister toils in his cham- 
ber, which is also his study, they anxiously watch Mrs. 
General Likens. Even Anaky the cook has long since 
ceased to provoke her old mistress ; and it is hard to do, 
for such has been Anaky’s course of life for thirty years. 
It worries Mrs. General Likens to have the servants so un- 


Burdens to be Borne. 


341 


usually active and obedient; it gives her that much the 
less to do. As to John, she had, very quietly, intimated 
her willingness to close her school for a while in order to 
be at home with her. 

“ But what /br, child ?” asked Mrs. General Likens, 
promptly — sharply, even. “ You don’t think I’m sick, I 
hope ? I’m strong enough — raised on a farm, you see. As 
to the General, I was expectin’ it. No, child, you go to 
your school ; don’t you mind me. But there’s one thing I 
must tell you, child,” she adds, after quite a silence. “ I’ve 
wanted to do it for months — have started to do it a dozen 
times, but it was too awful. We are alone now,” adds the 
old lady, lowering her voice and rising to see that the door 
of their chamber is shut, for it is as they are about lying 
down at night. “ I shudder to tell even you. It never 
happened to the General, in full at least, till after that aw- 
ful night Uncle Simeon raved — you remember it — about 
blood and burnin’. It wouldn’t then, only the General’s 
understanding had grown weak-like in that matter before. 
I know you won’t breathe it to a soul. It would kill me 
dead if I thought people dreamed of a syllable of it. It 
would blacken the General’s name forever, because people 
couldn’t understand he was out o’ his head when he 
thought it, as I could. It was part of the disease that 
killed him — he was so perfectly sensible ’cept in that. 
An’ it act’ly reconciled me to his death some, I’d all the 
time such a deathly terror he might let it out ; you see it 
was growiii) on him. He thought slavery — the ownin’ 
our own black ones — was a wrong thing, almost a sin !” 
added Mrs. General Likens, her lips to John’s ear, and in 
accents of horror. “ It’s weighed on my mind dreadful ! 
He was crazy ^ an’ couldn’t help it, you know.” 

As they endeavored to compose themselves to sleep, ex- 
hausted by this fearful revelation, Mrs. General Likens 


342 


The New Timothy. 


added, “ I’m afraid you won’t be able to sleej) a wink to« 
night thinkin’ of it, but I had to tell you. He was de- 
ranged, you know — not responsible like ; an’ it nigh drove 
me crazy, too, to think of it. But try an’ go to sleep if 
you can. I feel very tired to-night.” 

And so John would, day after day, very reluctantly 
draw on her deep sun-bonnet, and take her way to school 
along the well-known path through the woods. There 
were sorrowful thoughts as she passed along. There were 
trickling tears within the sun-bonnet too, as John thought? 
of the mistress of the household, so emaciated yet restless 
— so desolate yet defiant. And her own future, also. But 
the shadowy cloud soon broke, and the tears speedily roll- 
ed away 'before the shining of a young and hapj^y heart. 
The philosophy of it is so simple : God — the all-powerful, 
the ever-present, the infinitely-loving One — this Person 
smiles upon me, reconciled to Him in His Son, now and 
forever. Clouds will float between — misty nothings — but 
He smiles upon me forever and ever. How can one’s 
heart but reflect such shining? Not that she reasoned on 
the subject — thought definitely upon it. If asked, she 
could not have defined matters, perhaps. Unasked, she 
simply enjoyed herself as the birds do the sunshine — en- 
joyed herself all the more for taking all things as bright 
matter of course. 

And so the days passed away ; and Mrs. General Likens 
is j)assing away with them. Only chains, however, would 
have kept her in bed after daybreak. But she came to sit 
down oftener and longer at a time than before. At last 
she can not leave her chair but for brief intervals, so old 
she seems — so very old. And the week of truce has gone 
long ago. John’s vacation has come, and she stays in the 
house with Mrs. General Likens now all the time. The 
days pass by, and no one is surprised — not even the young- 


Mrs. General Likens Going Home. 343 

est negro on tlie place — that midnight hour, when they 
crowd into the room and see their mistress die — die in her 
sleep, unconscious of the loud weeping of her servants, un- 
conscious of the prayer of the young minister, who kneels 
by her bed commending her departing soul to God. 

“ Ah, yes, you needn’t say a word about it,” she had re- 
marked the very afternoon before, as she sat j)ropped up 
in her arm-chair, to John and Mr. Wall. “ I said long ago 
to you, child, don’t you never marry a minister. But, 
bless you, I knew it was no use at the very time. It Tvas 
my seein’ Mr. Merkes so much — troubles he an’ his wife 
ha^l. But what is it all at last ? James is there ; Uncle 
Simeon, he is there ; Mrs. Merkes, she’s got there ; General, 
he is there. I’ll be there soon. An’ you two’ll follow. 
What does it matter, the little while one’s got to be in this 
world ? Bein’ a Christian, bein’ ready to go — that’s the 
only thing to care for. An’ my poetry, too ; astonishin’ 
how people gets wrapped up in sech little things of this 
world ! This I can’t help say in’ — there were pieces I wrote 
which I hnoxo were good — if I could, only read you a few 
lines — Ah, never mind ! You’ve been a great help to 
me, children. The General he fixed up matters before he 
died. Never had much to say, the General, but he was a 
sensible man. You are welcome to each other ; it’s the 
Lord’s doin’.” 

And a smile passed over her face, the first since the Gen- 
eral’s deatli, as her young pastor, holding John’s hand in 
his all this time, now passes his arm around John’s waist, 
draws her gently to his side, and presses a kiss upon her 
cheek. And, smiling through her tears, John certainly 
never did look, in all her life before, quite so beautiful as 
then. 

“ Not the first, I reckon; an’ mighty far from bein’ the 
last,” says Mrs. General Likens, smiling her approval. 


344 


The New Timothy. 


“ You know I was a girl onst ; led the General a dance of 
it, I tell you. Yes, a real torn-down piece I was ! An’ 
time was, only a little ago, I could have made a mighty 
pretty quire or so of poetry upon you two — rhyme, not 
blank verse, either. And, I don’t hnoio it, mind, but I 
wouldn’t be surprised if I make poetry in heaven — so many 
y to read it to there — perhaps for ever an’ ever ! But never 
mind about that. Mr. Wall here ain’t his uncle, child. 
Never can get to be such a man. Mighty imperfect. A 
thousan’ things will be cornin’ up in him every day for 
you to correct, child. Mind you do your duty by him. 
The men need us dreadful. Paul — they tell me he was a 
widower,” Mrs. General Likens adds, after quite a silence, 
and more feebly. “ But I suppose Timothy he had a wife. 
An’ Peter we know had; always in somethin’ /le was ; time 
of it she must have had ! Good wife’s mighty necessary 
for a minister. An’ some money, if possible ! If you don’t 
do well havin’ John here along, Mr. Wall, I’m mistaken ! 
Don’t you ever tell a soul, child, that I told you about the 
General an’ his queer notions about the black ones ; it 
would ruin him here forever. Only part of his last sick- 
ness that was. But,” adds Mrs. General Likens, very 
wearily indeed, “ I’m a little tired of talkin’ to-night. Yes, 
the General he fixed up things. Tell you more about it 
all to-morrow.” 




THE END. 









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